


Teach Me to be Brave

by humapuma



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abused Steve, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Sexual Situations, Blow Jobs, Boy Next Door AU, Bucky is 19, Eating Disorders, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Loving Annabelle AU, M/M, Nick Fury is a Good Bro, No underage, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rimming, Teacher-Student Relationship, Touch-Starved, Trauma Recovery, Triggers, Wanda Is A Good Bro, sleeping with the enemy au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-02 07:35:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 60,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18806635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humapuma/pseuds/humapuma
Summary: Steve Rogers - a teacher at Shield Academy, a prestigious private school in Southern California - is concealing a terrible secret. Bucky Barnes is a transfer student living with his Uncle, recently moved from Indiana following a tragic loss. Fate has brought these two together - can they help one another heal?This is a teacher-student fic but there is NO underage. Bucky is 19.





	Teach Me to be Brave

**Author's Note:**

> **PLEASE READ**  
>  If you did not get through the tags, please be warned. This story deals with heavy issues so, **trigger warnings for domestic violence, psychological abuse, eating disorders, and more.** It is a teacher-student fic but there is **NO** underage content.  
> This story is something I've been working on for months and I'm really proud of it. <3  
> I've worked with several betas and did a lot of research to be as accurate about anorexia as possible. Of course, no two experiences are the same but I have tried to keep Steve's illness authentic.
> 
> Thank you to dixons_mama and BeBeafortheWeekend for supporting me and giving so much help! I had wonderful betas who helped me so much. Thank you!

Steve leaned against his desk, listening to Natasha Romanoff read her homework to the class. He tilted his head to ensure that his good ear was facing her, though the acoustics in the room played hell with his partial deafness anyway.

“My cigarette burns like a flame, my lungs will never be the same,” Natasha read in a flat, bored tone.

Like some of the more rebellious students at SHIELD Academy, she wore her uniform skirt a bit shorter than was acceptable but she was, by far, one of Steve’s favorite students. Early in the semester, Natasha and Carol Danvers, another student, had approached him to point out that he used male pronouns nearly all the time. They simply requested that he try to be more equal and he took the criticism and worked to put it into practice.

“I puff and I puff, I can never get enough. Oh well, I’ll get cancer just the same.”

After finishing, she set the paper down and moved to sit back behind her desk. Steve had gotten very good at maintaining a straight, impassive face when hearing his students’ original poetry, so his expression revealed nothing of his amusement. The pieces that had been read during class that day were all cynical and misanthropic, which hadn’t surprised Steve at all.

“Very nice, Natasha,” Steve said, adjusting his glasses. “But remember: the beauty of poetry is in the details. Next time, consider telling us what brand of cigarettes you smoke.” Natasha smirked at the comment but made no reply, so Steve moved on. “Anyone else want to share theirs?”

No one raised their hands, which didn’t surprise Steve one bit. He glanced at the clock, noting he still had about ten minutes left. He rounded his desk to the large whiteboard, where he began writing the homework.

“Alright, for tomorrow,” he said, writing in large, black letters. “I want you to read Walt Whitman’s _Song of Myself_ poems one, two, and three, then write three-hundred words on what you think they’re about.” The class groaned and he chuckled, turning back to them and putting the cap back on the marker. “Hey, it’s either tonight or you read the whole book and write 1,000 words this weekend. Take your pick.”

“Hey, teach,” Clint Barton called, raising his hand.

“Yes, Clint,” Steve answered.

“Wasn’t Walt Whitman _gay_?”

Steve’s voice was flat when he answered, “Yes.”

“So, he’s writing this about another _man_.”

Steve refrained from rolling his eyes and said, “ _Romeo and Juliet_ is about two children committing suicide after four days together; _Wuthering Heights_ is about a crazed, obsessive stalker, forcing his dead love’s daughter to marry his son; in _Jane Eyre_ , Mr. Rochester locked his wife up in an attic; and Gatsby is murdered when the woman he’s spent most of his life loving runs someone over and lets him take the blame.” The class remained silent as they considered what he had said. “Reading poetry written by a man who may or may not have had relationships with other _men_ is hardly the most disturbing thing you’ve done in this class.”

The students laughed and Clint nodded his own agreement. “That’s true, teach.”

When the bell rang, Steve called out, “Turn your poems into the basket on your way out.”

It was lunchtime, so Steve waited for the students to file out before he moved to his seat behind his wooden desk. He logged out of his computer to ensure that any notifications would be muted and opened the bottom drawer on his right to pull out his lunch bag.

His classroom windows faced east, so the bright California sunshine poured into the room. It was February and still cool enough in the mornings to keep them closed, but he liked to let fresh air in sometimes.

He opened his insulated lunch bag and pulled out a plain salad, raw celery sticks, and mixed fruit. He sighed and shoved his fork into the greens, forcing himself to chew each mouthful. He couldn’t use dressing or cheese – too many calories.

_“When’d you get so fat?”_

He tried to shake off the memory and took a bite of celery. Then there was a knock on the classroom door and he turned to find Wanda Maximoff, the AP Physics teacher – and his best friend. The sunlight coming in the windows seemed to pool at her feet but the linoleum reflected it onto her, making her red hair a luminous halo. She was about his age but had only begun teaching the previous winter and, though Steve wasn’t much her senior, he had taken her under his wing.

In a school full of wealthy, older men Steve and Wanda stuck together.

He put his fork down and smiled – or tried to. “Hey, Wanda,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“Steve,” she said, her tone contrite. “I’m sorry to ask, but there’s a new student that I was supposed to show around, but I have, um, a personal appointment and I completely forgot.”

 _Personal appointment_ was always something to do with Wanda’s twin brother and Steve knew not to ask.

He sighed, “Yeah, I’ll do it.” He packed his lunch up and set it back in his desk drawer. “You’re lucky you’re my friend.”

She smiled and said, “I know I am, and I’ll bring you an iced coffee when I come back. Just black, right?”

He nodded. “Yes – a _big_ one.”

She laughed and nodded back. “Of course.”

Steve followed Wanda out of the art building and down the hill, but they parted ways at the administrative hall. It was the largest – and oldest – structure on the campus, though no classes were housed in it anymore. It was where the departmental offices and conference rooms were located, as well as the administrative assistant, principal, and vice principal.

He walked inside and turned to the front office where the new student stood, waiting. There were others in the corridor – mostly faculty heading toward the staff dining room – and Steve weaved around them easily.

He took a moment to look the young man over: he wore a heavy leather jacket over a band tee that had definitely seen better days, some ripped jeans, and old Converse. If Steve hadn’t known better, he may have wondered if this was actually a delivery man, or even a security guard – he was tall and broad, looking way too old to be a high school student. He was very handsome, too – which Steve refused to acknowledge. His wavy brown hair was long and loose over his shoulders and Steve _knew_ that Principal Pierce would have a fit over it, but he hoped the family would fight the dress code.

He’d seen some students win for facial jewelry, even tattoos.

“Hi,” Steve said as he approached. “I’m Steve Rogers.”

The student looked down at him – he stood about five inches taller than Steve, which wasn’t all that unusual, given Steve’s height – and flashed Steve a bright, charming smile. “I’m James Barnes,” he replied, reaching his hand out.

Steve took it. “Nice to meet you, James. Do you prefer to be called James?”

“For now, yes,” he answered, releasing Steve’s grip. The charming smile faded a bit but not completely.

At that moment, Principal Pierce stepped out of the main office with a stack of uniforms. He, himself, was wearing a white button-up with steel-gray slacks and a matching vest, which reminded Steve that Pierce was more of a bureaucrat than an educator. He looked at Steve with his usual thinly veiled disapproval but quickly covered it up with a seemingly genuine smile. Steve knew that he’d been with Shield Academy for almost thirty years and had been the principal for at least ten.

“Rogers, where’s Ms. Maximoff?” He asked.

“She had a personal appointment this afternoon, sir,” Steve said. “She asked me to show James around.”

Pierce was too politic to sneer but Steve had learned his tells. “Alright,” he agreed after a moment, then turned to James and held up a set of clothes. “Here are your uniforms. We have a strict dress code here, young man.”

James nodded his head. “Yes, sir.”

Stepping forward, Steve hedged, “I’ll show James to the dining hall so he can eat before the bell rings.”

Pierce didn’t answer him but, instead, strode back into the office. Steve turned his attention back to James and said, conversationally, “Pretty late in the semester to transfer in.”

James nodded and his expression became wary, guarded. “Yeah, uh, I…” he started but didn’t finish.

Steve leaned closer to him and said, “Whatever the reason, we’re glad to have you here.”

James relaxed minutely and replied, “Thank you.”

Steve waved for him to follow. “I’ll show you to the dining hall and, after you eat, we’ll find your first class.” They walked out the front doors of the school into a bright, sunny day. Steve’s glasses tinted in the light automatically, which he was grateful for. “There are four buildings on the grounds; the administrative building,” he explained, pointing to where they had come from. “The science building,” he said, pointing to a three story building up a hill. “The arts building,” he nodded to the building next to the first one, “where my classroom is. And the dining hall,” he said.

“You, uh – what do you teach?” James asked.

“English Literature and AP US History, but I also have an art class two days after school each week.”

“Wow,” James said, sounding impressed. “That’s a lot.”

Steve chuckled and said, “Yeah, but I volunteered, so I won’t complain.”

As they walked through the doors into the dining hall, the smell of delicious food hit Steve like a smack in the face. He felt his stomach growl but he shook himself. It had already filled up with students in their uniforms – short-sleeved white button ups with blue slacks for the boys and pleated, blue skirts for the girls. Steve hated the image it made – there was no individuality, no color. The faculty dress code was nearly as strict, though he could get away with more color than the students could, so he tried to wear light blue, green, even purple dress shirts, and gray or charcoal slacks.

With the warm weather, he had rolled up his sleeves but he wished he could return to his classroom. It was air conditioned, quiet, and his lunch was there. He was _starving_ but couldn’t eat any of the food served at the school.

Steve turned to find James looking at him with an expectant expression. “Okay,” Steve said, looking around, “grab a plate and help yourself. This,” he added, taking James’ map of the grounds and drawing a circle around his classroom, “is my class. I will be back here in about twenty minutes, but if I’m not, then you can come here. I’ll help you find your next class.”

James smiled and nodded, “Thanks… Mr. Rogers.”

Steve blushed, inexplicably, and turned to leave; once he was outside, he took a deep breath in through his nose. The dining hall had smelled _so good_.

_“Christ, haven’t you had enough today?”_

He bit his lip and rushed back to the art building, to his boring, tasteless lunch. He always saved his fruit for last and tried to savor it, but when he was honest with himself, it had no flavor for him anymore.

When he finished, he returned to the dining hall and found James talking to Natasha and Clint by the entrance. James caught sight of him and grinned; he’d taken his leather jacket off, revealing scarring on his left arm.

Steve forced himself to look away and greeted, “Hey Nat, Clint.”

“Hey, teach,” Clint said.

“Hey, Mr. Rogers,” Nat said, her shrewd eyes locked on him. “Have a good lunch?”

“It was fine, thank you,” he answered. Sometimes he wondered if Natasha saw more than he thought she did, wondered if she knew. Some of the faculty used to joke that her father was a Russian spy, but Steve didn’t believe a word of it. “James, I can show you to your next class,” Steve offered.

“James has his next class with me, teach,” Clint said, squinting in the light. “So I can take him.”

“Oh, okay,” Steve said, “if that’s alright with you, James.”

James hadn’t taken his eyes off of Steve during the exchange, but seemed to suddenly realize it. He turned back to Clint and said, “Yeah, man, that’d be great.”

Steve nodded, “Alright, well, just remember that you will be expected to wear your uniform tomorrow.”

James sighed in resignation, “Yeah, I’m actually surprised I wasn’t told to change today.”

Steve shrugged one shoulder. “Some faculty do require it on the first day. I think it’s important to have some individuality for as long as you can.”

James grinned and his eyes moved over Steve’s lavender colored dress shirt and nodded, “I’m getting that vibe from you.”

Steve felt his face heat up but excused himself quickly. He turned and walked back to his classroom as some early students began to file in. The rest of the day went by as it normally did and, when the final bell rang, he grabbed all of the completed assignments from the day and packed them in his brown, leather briefcase. He ran his thumb over the initials engraved on it for a moment before shaking himself and getting his lunch bag out of the drawer.

He met Wanda outside of the administrative building. He could tell something was wrong – she was frowning and her eyes were red, as if she had been crying. “Hey Wanda,” he said, chiding her in a teasing tone. “Never did get my coffee.”

She nodded and said, “I’m sorry, Steve. We’ll get coffee on the way in tomorrow morning. My appointment went… well, I wasn’t thinking afterward.”

“Everything okay?” He asked. He wanted to reach out but didn’t – wouldn’t.

“Yes, but,” she said, looking around. “Let’s head to the car, okay?”

Steve nodded and followed her to the staff parking lot. The campus was surrounded by pistacia, cypress, and rosewood trees, many of which were taller than the buildings. As it was nearing spring, they had begun to bloom flowers and bright leaves.

When they got to her Jeep, she started it and ran the air conditioning on full blast. “Sometimes, I hate living in California,” she said in a bitter voice. “It’s so hot and not even March.”

“What’s going on?” He asked, turning toward her.

She spoke in a low, miserable tone as she drove them out of the parking lot. “My brother… he’s in rehab again.”

Steve sighed and running his fingers through his hair. “I’m so sorry, Wanda.”

She shook her head, obviously trying to keep tears from falling. “I’m just so afraid I’ll get a call one day and he’ll be dead, Steve.”

“I can’t even imagine,” he pulled his briefcase against his chest like a shield. “I’m here if you need anything, okay?”

She nodded, but her eyes turned darker and she changed the subject. “Did you sign the papers, yet?”

Steve clenched his jaw, gripping the briefcase tighter. He did not want to have this conversation again. “I… no, not yet.”

“ _Steve_ ,” she began, her voice full of fear and disappointment.

“I know! Okay? I _know_ ,” he said, releasing a shaky breath.

“Do you want to stay with me tonight?”

Steve shook his head, “It’s _my_ house. I won’t let him chase me out of it.”

“Then sign the _fucking_ papers, Steve,” Wanda said, raising her voice in a helpless rage that Steve _knew_ wasn’t directed at him. “He will continue to show up and harass you until you do.” Steve nodded, ducking his head and biting his lip. “Shit, Steve,” she said, watching him. “I’m sorry, I –”

“It’s okay,” he said, wanting the conversation to be over.

“No, it’s not. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Steve didn’t answer and the remainder of the drive was quiet, though Steve thought he heard music playing. When they pulled up to his house, he took a moment to look around the street before opening the door.

“See you tomorrow, Wanda,” he said, sliding out of the Jeep.

“Steve, wait,” she called, but then looked unsure as to what she should say. Finally, she simply asked, “Call me later, okay?”

He nodded, though they both knew he probably wouldn’t. He stood up and hurried from the sidewalk to his porch, unlocking the door as fast as possible and relocking it once he was inside. The foyer had four exit points: to the left was the kitchen; to the right was the living room; and ahead of him were the stairs and a short hallway that led to the dining room and backyard.

The backyard he hadn’t been in for months.

It was warm inside the house but he kept the windows shut and rarely used the air conditioning. He rushed to the back door and checked that the deadbolt was still fixed, then checked and rechecked the windows.

As he pulled the curtains on the west side of his house, he saw a moving van parked in front of his neighbor’s house. “Is Nick moving?” He wondered aloud, but didn’t even consider going outside to check.

He ate brown rice with steamed peas and carrots for dinner and cleaned all of the dishes thoroughly after he was done. Then, he wiped the table down and the counters. He poured himself a glass of diet coke and took his briefcase into his home office.

He had been grading assignments for almost two hours when he thought he heard voices. Considering his hearing impairment, the voices had to be close, and he rushed out of the room. He checked the locks on the doors and opened the front curtain to look outside, but saw no one. It was completely dark outside and he flipped the switch for his porch light, but nothing happened.

“Shit,” he whispered.

His hands were shaking as he checked the windows again before breathing a sigh of relief. He returned to his work, which was nearly done, fortunately, but he trembled all the way through it. Sometimes, he had to reread the same page two or three times before he comprehended it.

When he finished, he washed the glass and dried it, then put the papers back into the briefcase. He looked at the initials once more – _A.E._

Steve sighed but it was a defeated sound. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Erskine,” he whispered. “You’d be so disappointed in me.”

That night, like most nights, he slept with a light on.

The next morning, Steve packed his lunch as he ate a hardboiled egg and some fruit for breakfast. He heard Wanda honk her horn and he hurried to check the lock on the backdoor once more before leaving.

“Let’s go, let’s go, Mr. Rogers,” Wanda called, teasingly. “I gotta get you that coffee!”

“I’m coming!” Steve said, turning to lock his front door.

He was just beginning the World War II section of his AP US History class and always looked forward to that part of the semester. He opened the shades on the windows in the classroom and spent a few moments appreciating the view. The way that the bright sunshine poured through the trees cast gorgeous shadows on the lawn.

Once, Steve may have painted it.

“Uh, Mr. Rogers?”

Steve turned around to find James standing in the doorway, wearing the required uniform. Steve absolutely did not notice the way James’ shoulders and arms seemed to strain the fabric. He was also _not_ disappointed that James didn’t have his leather jacket.

James asked, “Is this the AP US History class you teach?”

Steve nodded, “Uh, yeah, it is. Do you need my help finding where you’re supposed to be?”

James stepped forward and answered, “No, I’m, uh, right where I should be.”

Steve swallowed and went to his computer. “Oh, okay, um, you can take a seat anywhere. I don’t care for assigned seating.” James chuckled and Steve was momentarily captivated by his smile. He blinked and opened his attendance list to ensure that James was, indeed, in the right place. “James Barnes,” Steve confirmed. “I’m glad to have you,” he added, honestly.

James hesitated for a moment before he said, “Bucky.”

“‘Bucky’?” Steve asked, confused.

James nodded, “Call me ‘Bucky’.”

“Bucky,” Steve confirmed, enjoying the sound of it. “Okay.”

Bucky’s smile was truly radiant; his nose wrinkled a little bit and Steve had never seen anything so adorable in his life. He blinked and cleared his throat, removing his glasses to pretend he needed to clean them. He stood up to pull the cloth from his pocket, wiping them off. He glanced up and found that Bucky was staring at him still and that gaze was beginning to fluster him.

When he was about to ask if something was wrong, other students began filing in and the moment was gone. When the bell rang, Steve wrote ‘September 1st, 1939’ on the whiteboard and turned to the class.

“Alright, everyone, James Barnes is a new student in this class,” he began, purposely not using the nickname Bucky had given him. He was sure that it wasn’t something Bucky shared with everyone. “But the semester halts for no man – or woman,” he added, hastily, glancing at Natasha. “So, who can tell me what occurred on this date?”

He leaned against his desk, waiting. When he was teaching, it felt like he was someone else – someone worth more. The students looked up to him and respected him. He shuddered to think how they would see him if they knew how pathetic he really was.

Bucky raised his hand and Steve pointed to him, “B- er, James.”

“Hitler invaded Poland, effectively starting World War II.”

Steve nodded. “Yes, correct. Does anyone know what happened next?”

Natasha raised her hand and Steve pointed at her. “Russia invaded about two weeks later.”

Steve nodded, solemnly, “Yes, excellent, on September 17th. Let’s keep this energy up, guys and gals,” he said and a few students laughed.

He continued the lesson and tried not to blush every time Bucky answered or asked a question. There was nothing in his comments or expression that should have made Steve feel… however he was feeling. He chalked it up to teaching in front of a new student that he didn’t know very well and continued the lesson.

When there were about five minutes left, he gave the assignment and reminded the class, “I’m in here at lunch, so if you have questions, please come see me. Enjoy your weekend, everyone.”

When lunch came, Steve ate alone in the classroom; the only sound that broke the silence was the crunch of his celery. He graded assignments from the morning, hoping the decrease the amount of work he’d have to take home that weekend.

“Yo, teach,” Clint said from the door.

“Yes, Clint?” Steve asked, putting the lid back on his salad.

“I had a few questions about the reading.”

Steve sat with Clint for about twenty minutes, going over the 500-word essay. Steve always wanted to be approachable for his students; he worked hard to ensure that his demeanor was inviting and respectful. He knew what it could do to someone to be talked down to all the time.

When Clint stood to leave, he glanced at Steve’s food but said nothing. Steve wondered if Clint knew, too. “See ya, Teach,” he called as he left.

Steve looked at the bowl of spinach, kale, and romaine lettuce and sighed. The last time he saw his doctor, she had been extremely concerned about his weight. Steve remembered the nurse requested him to step off the scale, then back on two times before she accepted that it was correct. He wore loose clothing to conceal how bony he had gotten in the past few months.

He took a deep breath and continued eating his food, finishing off the entire salad and bits of fruit he had packed. He put the dishes away and continued reviewing students’ work.

 

 

* * *

 

 

His first few days of classes went by quickly, though not without incident. The principal, Mr. Pierce, called him to the office on his second day; there, he found his uncle waiting. Pierce proceeded to lecture both of them about Bucky’s long hair, the ‘liberalization of public education,’ and the ‘emasculation of men.’

Bucky didn’t know how long Pierce talked before his uncle simply stood up and said, “His hair stays.”

With that, he turned to walk out. Bucky hesitated for a moment before chasing after him. He did decide to wear it up, though, to avoid further issue.

Because of the number of credits that he had from his previous school, he didn’t _need_ to attend classes all day. He would, however, have to take Biology II over the summer if he wanted to finish and graduate with this class. But, because Nick wanted him to have a “ _normal experience_ ,” he encouraged Bucky to attend all eight hours.

His morning began with PE, which he did not enjoy. Because of his shoulder, he couldn’t play sports or do a lot of exercises – but he _could_ run, which he did. His teacher, Mr. Quill, respected Bucky’s abilities and played them up, adjusting the curriculum for the whole class.

After that, he had Statistics with Mr. Stark – an older man with a thin mustache and even thinner patience. It didn’t help, Bucky supposed, that Mr. Stark’s son, Tony, was in his class and clearly had no respect for his father. Bucky spent a lot of time grimacing at their interactions.

Then, he had Steve – _Mr. Rogers’_ class. He couldn’t explain it, but it always seemed like Mr. Rogers became a bit flustered around him, even blushed a little. Bucky thought it was adorable, but he was determined to keep that thought pushed down.

He had study hall before lunch and his afternoons were spent in elective classes that were not required for him to graduate. He was in Mr. Urich’s journalism class; Mr. Reyes’ Spanish class, though he was already fluent in the language; and Mrs. Parker’s chemistry class.

After the final bell rang on Friday, Bucky made his way to the room where Mr. Rogers’ art class was held. He had asked Clint about it at lunch his first day and he couldn’t really explain why he wanted to go. He wasn’t what anyone would label _creative_.

Several students were already there, waiting outside the locked door, so he joined them. He stood next to a redheaded girl he had class with. “Hey,” she greeted him. “James, right?”

He nodded, but hesitated, “Yeah, uh…”

“Natasha,” she supplied, smirking.

“Right,” he said, smiling. “We have history together.”

She nodded but her attention shifted and Bucky heard Mr. Rogers say, “Hey, everyone.”

Bucky turned and watched the teacher walk toward them, looking at a set of keys in his hand. It was then that Bucky noticed that Mr. Rogers had a hearing aid in his left ear, though he’d given no indication that he had one. That day, he wore a deep blue sweater over his maroon collared shirt and the combination was enough to make Bucky do a double take. He’d seen him in it earlier, of course, but it was a striking look, especially paired with Mr. Rogers’ thin frame and high cheekbones.

After he got the door open, he said, “Let’s get the easels set up and grab the pieces from Tuesday.” He finally looked up and said, “Bucky?” Behind his glasses, Mr. Rogers’ eyebrows were furrowed and Bucky was _sure_ he was blushing.

 _Oh, I’m in trouble_ , he thought when he felt his own skin flush. But he just smiled and said, “I was wondering if I could, uh, join today?”

Mr. Rogers cocked his head and said, “It’s a free class. Please, come in,” he waved Bucky inside and pointed to the corner. “There are open easels over there. Grab one and I can help you set it up if you need.”

Bucky did as he was instructed and tried to get it standing on his own, but couldn’t seem to get it straight. He watched as Mr. Rogers checked in with each student, making sure to ask them about their family, showing a familiarity and ease that he didn’t have with Bucky. _Yet_.

After he set his own station up, he approached Bucky, though he seemed to make a point of looking away. “Do you have much painting experience?” He asked, standing the easel with deft hands.

Bucky sat on the stool and looked over at him, noting that they were almost at the same height. “No – well, I mean, I’ve painted a house before.”

Mr. Rogers laughed, suddenly, and Bucky almost jumped. He hadn’t seen the man so much as _smile_ since they’d met. When he glanced over, he saw Natasha looking just as shocked, and Bucky couldn’t help but wonder what made him happy; what he needed to do to hear that laughter again. He felt his face heat up at that thought.

“Well,” Mr. Rogers said, still chuckling, “let’s start slow, then.”

Bucky smiled then, his _real_ smile and he froze, looking at Bucky. His cheeks were pink, even the tips of his ears, and Bucky felt his smile _grow_ , inexplicably. Clearing his throat and quickly turned away, Mr. Rogers walked over to a cabinet. Bucky watched him grab some tubes of paint and a few brushes of varying styles, as well as his own supplies, then returned to Bucky.

“So, these –” he began, but Bucky interrupted.

“Can I see what you’re working on?”

He looked up and Bucky noted that his throat had gone splotchy from his blush. He nodded once and said, “Okay.”

He set the paints down and Bucky followed him to his easel, across the room. From his reaction, Bucky wondered if people ever asked to look at his work, or if they even cared enough to. Bucky could definitely tell that he wasn’t very comfortable with letting his work be seen.

Bucky rounded the easel to stand next to him and saw the blond head immediately duck. Bucky wanted to _comfort_ him; he wanted to soothe these hurts, but shook himself and looked at the painting. “Holy _shit_ , Mr. Rogers!”

He looked up, shocked, and chided, “Language.”

Bucky clapped his hand over his mouth, “Oh, sh- uh, sorry, but this is beautiful!”

Bucky was sure that it was the art building, painted at sunset when the sky was a mix of pink, orange, and purple. Mr. Rogers looked at it, even squinted, and Bucky could tell he was trying to see what Bucky saw.

“Will the school showcase this?” Bucky asked and Mr. Rogers laughed, a harsh sound without an ounce of happiness.

“No, Buck,” he said, looking up, and Bucky wondered if he’d realized that he’d shortened the nickname. “This is just for me.”

Bucky looked at him then with so many emotions in his gut, he thought he might explode. He wanted to understand what had caused this intelligent man to hide his talent, to be afraid of eye contact, and to disparage himself so.

After a moment, he finally said, “It should be put somewhere everyone can see it.” His voice was resolute, allowing no question as to how he felt about Steve’s art.

Mr. Rogers took a long moment to search Bucky’s face, maybe looking for any hint that he was playing a cruel joke of some kind, or speaking insincerely. When he didn’t find what he expected, he finally said, “Thank you.”

They walked back to Bucky’s easel and he listened as Mr. Rogers went over acrylic paints and the tricks he used with them. When Bucky agreed that he had a basic understanding, Mr. Rogers left to check in with the other students. Bucky was sure he wouldn’t make a Picasso or anything, but he decided to try and make a skyline, with mountains and maybe a lake.

They remained in the art room for an hour, during which Mr. Rogers seemed as though he were trying not to hover around Bucky, though he wouldn’t have minded. He took as many opportunities as he could to really look at the teacher, though he wasn’t sure why he wanted to.

Well – he _did_ know, but it wasn’t even an option.

So he observed Mr. Rogers as he walked around the room and remembered when they’d first met. He’d been surprised to realize that _Steve_ wasn’t another student, but a teacher. When they shook hands, Bucky thought that he might crush him, his hand was so bony. But he’d immediately put that aside because Steve was _gorgeous_. His hair was hay colored, shaved on the sides but wispy and curly on top, as if he had a cowlick he couldn’t fight down. Behind those thick-rimmed glasses, his eyes were bright blue, set between high, pronounced cheekbones. When he turned, Bucky noticed that his nose had definitely been broken at least once.

It was Steve’s _voice_ that really struck Bucky, made his heart race. He had been trying to figure out how to ask him out by the time he realized he wasn’t a student.

The uniforms should have given it away, but Bucky wasn’t observing his surroundings at that moment. He’d been focused on Steve. Well, _Mr. Rogers_.

As they had walked toward the dining hall, Bucky noticed, through his baggy clothes, _all_ of Mr. Rogers was bony. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing thin wrists and forearms. In the sunlight, he winced as if he were unused to so much light, which his skin attested to, as every inch of him was pale, apart from the deep circles under his eyes.

Watching him in the art room, Bucky wondered why Mr. Rogers wore long sleeves, even though it was hot out. It wasn’t because of faculty dress codes, though. He’d seen other male teachers with short sleeves, but Mr. Rogers kept himself covered.

He had moved in front of his own easel by then, and sat on his stool, looking at the painting of the art building again. But he didn’t lift the brush; he didn’t even open his paints. He was frowning and gripping the brush in his fist so hard it began to shake. His jaw was clenched but Bucky could see his lip tremble, then he stood up quickly, excused himself, and rushed out the door.

Bucky couldn’t explain what drove him to follow, but he ran out of the art room.

When he reached the restroom, he checked the door to ensure it wasn’t locked, before he opened it a crack. He saw Mr. Rogers, leaning over the sinks, weeping as quietly as he could. He’d covered his mouth and taken his glasses off, setting them on the counter.

“Mr. Rogers?” Bucky hedged, aware that this was a _teacher_ , not a peer, and no matter how badly he wanted to comfort him, he would keep his distance.

“Sorry, sorry,” he gasped, standing up and wiping his face. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I – I’m not… feeling very well, I guess.” He kept his gaze pointed at the floor as he spoke.

Bucky stepped into the bathroom a bit further and asked, “Do you need to go home?”

Mr. Rogers swallowed, glancing up to Bucky’s face for a moment before shaking his head. “No, I’m okay. Besides, my ride won’t be here until 4:30. I’ll be fine.”

Bucky didn’t want to, but he nodded his head and stepped back, letting the door shut firmly. He returned to the art room where the others were putting their work away. He followed suit and put his paper on the rack with everyone else’s, then folded his easel up and set it against the wall where he’d gotten it.

“I took a look at your painting,” Natasha said as she approached him.

He tried to smile and said, “Yeah?”

“Not bad,” she said seriously. “You have a good eye for colors.”

He really did smile then. “Thank you.”

He wondered if Natasha was flirting with him and tried to find a way out of it but she simply smirked at him and walked away. He grabbed his bag with his left hand and winced as a sharp pain shot into his shoulder, taking the bag in his right hand instead.

It had been almost a year since the accident and the injury was mostly healed, but it still bothered him sometimes. He pulled his phone out and grimaced at the number of messages he had waiting for him. “Shit,” he muttered to himself and called his uncle as he walked out the door.

It rang once before he answered, “The hell are you, Bucky?”

“Sorry, Nick,” he sighed. “I’m still at the school. I stayed for an art class.”

There was silence on the line and Bucky smirked; he was sure that Nick was deliberating on whether to chastise or praise him. “Let me know next time,” he finally grumbled. “Dinner’s on its way, so you better get here fast.”

Bucky rushed out the main doors and jogged to the parking lot. “I’m just getting in the car now.”

“Alright, see you soon,” Nick said, then hung up.

When Bucky reached his car – an older Subaru Outback – he unlocked it and tossed the bag onto the passenger seat. He started it and shifted into ‘drive’ when he saw Mr. Rogers walking out of the building with another teacher. Bucky didn’t have class with her but he knew she taught Physics.

He still looked… uneasy, maybe even vulnerable. To Bucky, he looked like he’d exposed something secret and shameful, then he didn’t know how to cover it back up again. He had his briefcase gripped tight against his abdomen, as if it were a shield from harm. The other teacher looked like she wanted to touch him, to comfort him; she fiddled with her keys, glancing his way often, and if Mr. Rogers noticed, he didn’t acknowledge it.

In fact, he wasn’t doing much of anything but letting her lead him.

Bucky realized how creepy he was acting, watching two teachers leave the school, so he left the parking lot. When he arrived, he jogged to the porch and was about to unlock the door. Just then, he heard a car pull up and turned to find Steve Rogers on the sidewalk outside the house next door.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Wanda,” Mr. Rogers said, though he wasn’t paying her much attention.

Bucky’s porch was flanked by hibiscus shrubs that had grown taller than he was, and they concealed him fairly well. He watched Mr. Rogers search the area with wide, anxious eyes, before nearly making a run for it to his own porch. Bucky watched him unlock two deadbolts and the normal lock before he could open the door.

After he was inside, Bucky leaned over a bit, to get a better look at his house. It had once been a pale blue with white trim, but was in desperate need of a new paint job. The whole house needed some work, honestly, but the porch was tragic. Two of the banisters were broken, though it looked as though it had been from the inside out, as if someone had kicked them. He also noted that all of the windows were shut and the curtains were drawn. He imagined that, in this heat, the house was a sauna unless Mr. Rogers had really excellent Central Air.

“What are you doing out here?” A voice asked and Bucky nearly fell off the stairs.

“Nick!” He grumbled, turning on his uncle with a glare, “You could’ve killed me!”

His uncle simply laughed and rolled his one eye. “Get your ass in here before I eat your dinner for you,” he scolded, though he had a smile on his face.

 Nick had been in an accident more than two decades before; he’d lost one eye and his knee was seriously damaged. He wore an eyepatch rather than a glass eye which, he said, was “more attractive.” The previous year, Nick had fallen and broken his hip, which required a total hip replacement and weeks of inpatient rehab. He still needed to use a cane when he walked sometimes.

Bucky nodded, though gave one final long look at the neighboring house. When he walked inside, he asked, “Mr. Rogers, he lives next door?”

Nick turned to him with a wariness in his expression that Bucky hadn’t expected. “He your teacher?” Bucky nodded, then he went on, “He’s a good kid.”

“How old is he?” Bucky asked, noting that his uncle rarely referred to anyone over thirty years old as “kid.”

“Well, he got his teaching license the summer he turned twenty-two,” Nick said in a slow voice, as he thought it over. “Started at the Academy the following fall, so I’d say about twenty-three or twenty-four.”

He followed Nick to the kitchen where several cartons of Chinese food were set out on the counter. They both filled plates and returned to the small dining room. The table was old but still looked nice, though it only fit two, maybe three people. Bucky knew that Nick had never married or had any kids of his own, so he never needed much room. The house, itself, was two stories, with three bedrooms and two bathrooms, but Nick had bought it when he was young and assumed he would have family to fill it one day.

“Did he move in next door then, too?” Bucky asked, taking a bite of his sesame chicken.

“No,” Nick said, thoughtfully. “He inherited the house when his mom passed away. He was nineteen then, I think.”

Bucky swallowed. “What about his dad?”

“His dad passed when he was a baby,” he explained, then took a bite. “He was in the military.”

Bucky chewed and swallowed, thoughtfully. “So, did anyone look out for him?”

“ _I_ did,” Nick said, defensively. “You wouldn’t know it now, but he used to be a really social neighbor.” Nick started chuckling as he remembered. “He had a vegetable garden and an apple tree, and I’d come home and find a box of produce. He wouldn’t take money for it, so he had to sneak it.” Bucky laughed too, trying to imagine the frightened man he knew, running around the neighborhood with boxes of vegetables. “But, he has an uncle, too,” Nick said, interrupting Bucky’s thoughts. “Senator Brandt.”

Bucky’s eyes widened. “Seriously? That conservative dickhead?”

Nick laughed out loud, but nodded. “Yeah, that one. He’d come by a couple times a year, spent an hour reminding Steve that he’s worthless, then leave.”

Bucky swallowed and asked, “Is that why he’s so…”

He didn’t finish but Nick’s face made it clear he didn’t have to. “No,” he said in a far darker tone than Bucky had ever heard from him. “No, his uncle didn’t bother him. After the visits, Steve would come over with cookies and I’d make coffee, and we’d talk.” Nick shook his head with a sympathetic look on his face. “Poor kid. His asshole uncle’s a huge homophobe on top of everything.”

“Steve – er, Mr. Rogers is _gay_?”

Nick grimaced, realizing he had said too much. “Yeah, but don’t spread that shit around at your school. He’s got it hard enough.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Bucky said, honestly. After he ate a few more bites, he observed, “He seems really isolated.”

Nick nodded his head, slowly, “Yeah, he’s had a tough year, that’s for sure. Now he hardly leaves his house, let alone gardens.”

“What do you mean?”

Nick thought his answer over before responding, “It’s not my place.”

“Come on,” Bucky pushed.

Nick shook his head, “No, Bucky. He’s a good guy. We should give him as much privacy as we can.”

Bucky chewed on his lip for a moment. “He cried today.”

Nick looked up, surprise showing in his one eye. “Why?”

Bucky shook his head, “I complimented his painting and… he got really upset. Has he always been that way?”

“No,” Nick pointed over his shoulder, “he gave me that piece.”

Bucky turned to look and immediately recognized the one Nick had referred to. It was a large canvas of a forest with a creek and a bench. Even though he understood very little about art, to Bucky, it seemed _bold_. The light shown through the tops of the trees but within, there were deep shadows, concealing the dangers of the woods.

“Wouldn’t take a dime for it, the little punk,” Nick reminisced with a smile.

“I saw one today,” he said.

“One of his older ones?”

Bucky shook his head. “No, a new one he’s painting at the school.”

Nick nodded his head, “That’s good. Never see him out anymore, since… well, I’m glad he’s painting.”

Bucky tried a few more times to learn more, but Nick was a master at subterfuge. He could bob and weave to escape Bucky’s questions far too easily.

Bucky turned back to his food, dissatisfied with the information he had learned. It felt like he had a puzzle in front of him with many pieces missing and some that didn’t even fit. According to his uncle, Steve had been a tough kid; he’d lost both of his parents and dealt with verbal abuse from his only relative. But then _something happened_. Bucky couldn’t explain why he _needed_ to know.

He cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher, then put the leftovers away. After he showered and worked on his homework, he stood by the window, looking at Mr. Rogers’ house. He could tell which room he was in because light illuminated the heavy drapes.

All he could think about was how he had looked in the bathroom. He’d been embarrassed but almost hopeful, and Bucky regretted that he had left. He regretted that he hadn’t tried to offer comfort.

He was grateful, then, that he had so much time to try again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve woke up at six on Saturday morning to the darkness of his bedroom. The curtains were shut tight, blocking any light from entering. He crawled out of the blankets to use the bathroom before going downstairs to start the coffee pot.

Saturdays were Steve’s errand and chore days; he had laundry to do and the kitchen to clean, then he knew he needed to wipe the fridge down.

_“The fuck is wrong with you? There’re stains all over in there. You’re disgusting.”_

Steve’s lips set in a hard line, taking deep breaths to calm his shaking hands, and then he continued planning his day. Three months ago, he wouldn’t have been able to do that. He still had hard days; his hands still shook sometimes; and he was still afraid.

Wanda kept pressing him to sign the restraining order papers but Steve _couldn’t_. Once he did that, he would have to go to court and Brock would be there. He would be so mad. But he had only shown up at the house a handful of times since Steve’s neighbor had called the police that night.

Steve hoped that Brock would eventually forget about him and never come back.

While he drank a cup of black coffee, he scrubbed the sink, wiped the counters, and swept the floor. After he was done, he washed and dried the mug to put away, and started his laundry. Next he mopped the kitchen floor; vacuumed the living room office, and upstairs; then he scrubbed the bathrooms. By then, it was barely nine, so he went back upstairs and stripped his bed to wash the sheets, before he thought he might faint.

He ate a hardboiled egg and a few grapes, which stopped the shaking from low blood sugar. He wiped the counter again and then wiped the drawers in the fridge down before replacing the case of grapes. He took a moment to look at the rest of the contents for a moment, recognizing that he was running low on the meager foods he did keep.

“I guess I have to go to the store,” he muttered to himself, feeling the anxiety creeping up his neck.

The grocery store was loud and busy, especially on Saturdays, and Steve no longer did well with loud and busy. There was no help for it, though, so he grit his teeth and went back upstairs to shower.

Wanda drove him to work because he didn’t have a working vehicle. His Volkswagen Bug was from the 1970s and hadn’t run in months. In its place, he had a bicycle with three baskets on it that he used to run errands. It was a gift from his neighbor, Nick, because Steve always declined his offers for rides around town. Steve liked Nick a lot, and appreciated his kindness, but it wasn’t safe for him to accept it.

Nick had simply refused to take the bicycle back when Steve tried to argue. He kept the bike locked into the shed and spent the rest of that summer sneaking boxes of vegetables and apples onto Nick’s porch, as a sign of appreciation.

But Steve hadn’t seen Nick much since the night he’d called the police.

Even though it was warm out, Steve pulled on a hoodie sweatshirt and jeans. The sun was bright and burned his eyes until his glasses darkened. He pulled his helmet on, remembering how his mother had always reminded him to. Traffic was loud and condensed, making Steve even more grateful for the bike. It was always a twenty to thirty minute ride to the store and he had to be very defensive to avoid drivers in a hurry, not paying attention.

Steve locked his bike in the rack and tugged on the chain twice to ensure it was secured. He took a shaky breath and walked through the doors, grabbing a cart on the way.

He went straight to the refrigerated section and grabbed eggs and plain yogurt, though he made a point to check each brand to find the lowest fat and calorie content. He grabbed a case of diet Coke, because he knew that the sweet flavor satisfied his occasional sugar cravings and the carbonation helped him feel full. Then, he made his way to the dry beans and took two bags of lima beans and a box of brown rice, then he hurried to the produce section. He picked out his salad staples, then grabbed more grapes, oranges, and apples. On a whim, he grabbed a grapefruit, an avocado, some strawberries, and papayas.

He hoped that they wouldn’t taste like ash his mouth; he hoped that they would fill him up better than the grapes.

The lines were already long, but be refused to use the self-checkout lanes. He knew it may be quicker for him, but he was disgusted by the idea that corporations would develop machines that replaced human employees.

After nearly ten minutes, he was able to set his basket on the conveyor belt and pull his wallet out.

The cashier was a woman near his age, maybe a bit younger. She smiled at him and asked, “How are you today?”

Steve used to be good at small talk; he used to be friendly toward strangers, but not anymore.

“I’m fine, thanks,” he said, leaving it at that. She didn’t seem phased but Steve felt angry with himself, knowing that most customers ignored her like he had done. He took a breath, then added, “How are you?”

Her smile brightened and she said, “I’m good, thank you for asking.” He nodded but said nothing more.

He hesitated at the doors, checking the area before he stepped outside. Nowhere was safe for him anymore. Random cars set him on edge; if he heard a loud noise or someone shouted, he had to force himself not to cower. He shook his head and loaded his bags out to his bike and set them in the baskets.

With another wary glance around, Steve unlocked the chain and pulled the bike off of the sidewalk. The ride back to his house was quicker, though by the time he reached it, he was shaking again. He’d broken out in a cold sweat and, when he swung his leg off of the bike, he nearly collapsed.

“St- er, Mr. Rogers!” A voice called out as footsteps approached in a rush. “Are you okay?”

Steve blinked a few times, trying to clear his vision; suddenly, someone gripped his arm to steady him, but Steve yanked it away, instinctively.

“Sorry, Mr. Rogers,” he said. “Did I hurt you?”

Steve finally looked over at… a naked chest. He blushed hard, snapping his head up to find… “Bucky?”

Bucky grinned so wide, his nose wrinkled and Steve realized he was standing much too close. He took a step backward, dropping his eyes to keep from staring. His eyes did dart over to check that Bucky was wearing pants – which he was, though they were just flannel pajamas.

He forced himself to avert his eyes. “What are you doing here, Bucky?” He inquired, feeling a stab of panic.

There was a moment of hesitation before Bucky answered, “I live next door.”

Steve looked up and found Bucky, still beaming, eyes sparkling with nothing but happiness. “Y-you do?” He asked.

Bucky nodded, “Yeah, I live with my uncle.” He pointed behind him with his left thumb and Steve’s attention was momentarily drawn to the scarring on his arm. There looked to be incision marks around long, flat, widespread scars. “You know, Nick Fury?”

Steve blinked. “Nick is your uncle?”

Bucky laughed out loud, shaking his head, and Steve was rapt by the image. He was beautiful, carefree, and so happy; his eyes were on the gray end of blue and his skin was healthy and golden. He was also very fit, which Steve _did not notice one bit_. As Bucky’s fit died down, he answered, “Yeah, we get that a lot.”

“S-sorry,” Steve said, instinctively.

Bucky just laughed and said, “Not the first time.”

Before Steve realized what was happening, his mouth had curved into a smile and he began to laugh too. They stood on Steve’s sidewalk, in broad daylight, snickering like a couple of old pals.

“Can I help you with this?” Bucky asked, gesturing to the bags of groceries that Steve had completely forgotten about.

He looked down at it, suddenly feeling the weight of this situation settle on him. Bucky was shirtless; Bucky was a _student_ ; Bucky wanted to go in Steve’s _house_. “No, I –” he began, taking hold of the handle bars and pushing the bike toward the porch. “I appreciate it, Buck, but I can get by on my own.”

Bucky placed a gentle hand on Steve’s upper arm, slowing his pace but not restricting him. He met Bucky’s eyes and waited. “The thing is, Steve,” he said, “you don’t _have_ to.”

Steve swallowed, hesitating a moment before nodding his head. “Yeah, I… yeah, thank you.”

Bucky nodded, grinning like the Cheshire cat. He took two bags in his right hand and one in his left, leaving two bags for Steve to carry. Bucky waited while Steve put the bike kickstand down and led them to the porch. Hearing footsteps behind him made the hairs on Steve’s neck stand up. He knew it was Bucky, knew he was safe, but the old fear – the desperate need to ignore any flirtation, to keep his eyes down – crept up like a tiger.

_“Who the fuck’s been in here with you?”_

 He turned suddenly and said, “You can just set them there,” pointing to the top step.

“No, I can take ‘em –” Bucky said, gesturing toward the door.

“No,” Steve said, his voice sharp and final, “it’s fine.”

Bucky hesitated for a moment, then nodded his head. He took a step back and leaned forward to get the bags where Steve had told him. “Okay,” he said, giving Steve a slightly diminished smile. “I’ll see you later, Mr. Rogers.”

“Goodbye, Bucky,” Steve said, wondering if Bucky had seen what he had purchased, wondered if Bucky would care.

He waited for Bucky to begin walking back toward his own house before he turned to unlock the door. He dragged the bags inside and hesitated, leaning out to look over at his neighbor’s house. He wondered what room was Bucky’s; he wondered if Bucky would try to visit him again, or if Steve had made him too uncomfortable.

When he finally shut the door, he turned each lock and imagined what it would be like to allow someone behind these walls.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky closed the front door and leaned against the cool wood, letting his head fall back against it. Steve had looked _terrified_ when he asked Bucky to set the groceries down. If he had stepped forward, Bucky was almost sure Steve would have made a run for it.

However, he _was_ sure that it wasn’t him Steve was afraid of.

While he had been on the porch steps, Bucky had taken stock of the shape Steve’s house was in. The dowels of the railing had definitely been kicked out; there were other signs of damage, as if rocks or something as hard had been thrown at the door. There were no signs of broken glass, so Bucky didn’t think that the windows had been broken, but it was clear that someone had gone out of their way to cause destruction.

“Buck,” Nick said, dragging Bucky from his thoughts. “What were you doing out there without a shirt on?”

Bucky laughed and looked down. “Just being neighborly.”

Nick didn’t buy that answer one bit but he let it go after giving Bucky a long, meaningful look. “Hurry up and get the dishes done so we can start working on the yard.”

“Come on, Nick, give a guy a break,” he whined.

“Excuse me, who is living here rent-free?” Nick asked in a dry tone.

Bucky laughed and nodded, walking to the kitchen. “You won’t take my money, Nick,” he called.

“That money is what your parents left you to go to college, punk,” Nick shouted.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, bending to empty the dishwasher.

When he was done, he grabbed the dirty dishes from the sink and loaded them. He glanced up, looking out the window that faced Steve’s house, and saw a curtain move, as if someone had closed it just then. He couldn’t help the shy smile that spread over his face, wondering if Steve had been watching him move around the kitchen.

While he considered that, he realized how incongruous it had been to approach Steve without a shirt on. In his defense, he had gone outside without the intention of even approaching Steve, but when he’d seen him shakily holding himself up, he couldn’t just stand there.

Having held him up, touched his arm, and been so close, Bucky realized just how _thin_ Steve was. Even through that sweatshirt, Bucky felt the sharp bones of his shoulder and wrist.

He heard Nick enter the kitchen behind him and asked, “Has Steve always been that skinny?”

Nick kept his face blank; he cocked one eyebrow and asked, “So it’s _Steve_ now?”

Bucky glowered at him, “Nick.”

Nick sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose and leaning on his cane. “No, he hasn’t. He’s never been what I would consider a ‘healthy’ weight, but he used to… well, no. He hasn’t.”

Dropping the spatula he had in his hand, he prodded, “Why won’t you tell me more?”

“Why do you _want_ to know?” He accused, his eye widening in anger.

Bucky was shocked; he had never seen Nick get _mad_. They had arguments, sometimes, but Nick never yelled at him. He had struck something tender, something raw, and he should have seen it sooner. The way Nick spoke about Steve was protective and caring, but also in the past tense.

Something had happened between them – something Nick didn’t want to talk about. Bucky wondered if it was something Steve had done, or something Nick had done? His uncle knew so much about Steve and had only shared a little bit with Bucky. Even after the months of little to no contact, Nick was still looking out for him.

 _Okay_ , he surmised, _not something_ Steve _did._

“I’m sorry,” Nick said, his face softening. “I know you’re only curious. I know you’re a good guy, Buck.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed at the statement and he chewed his lip, nervously. “I just…” he hesitated for a moment, then continued, “I want to know him, Nick.”

Nick considered that for a moment, eying Bucky as he thought it over. Finally, his mouth twitched with amusement and said, “Then get to know _him_.” Bucky smiled, feeling that Nick approved of his interest in Steve, even if neither of them fully understood the extent of it yet. “And hurry up with those dishes,” Nick said in his stern, military voice. “We got shit to do.”

Bucky laughed and nodded, turning to finish his task with a lighter heart. That evening, after he had showered and done some of his homework, he sat on the deck, watching the sunset change from orange to pink, then to purple and blue. He didn’t usually do this but, for some reason, Bucky wanted to be _visible_ to Steve, wanted to be on his mind like he was on Bucky’s.

It didn’t matter how much he reminded himself that Steve was a teacher; it only mattered that he made Steve smile. When most of the sky had darkened, Bucky stood up and walked across the patio but, as he reached the door, he caught sight of movement. He looked over and saw Steve’s curtains moving again.

Bucky knew that this didn’t mean that Steve was into him. It didn’t even mean that Steve _liked_ him.

But he knew it meant _something_.

March came slowly, bringing heavy rain and cloud cover to the area. It was during a heavy downpour that Nick fell again. He’d had a hip replacement surgery the previous year and spent six weeks in a rehab facility, followed by ongoing physical therapy. His doctor encouraged him to use a cane, but Nick was stubborn.

Bucky followed the ambulance to the hospital and waited for the x-rays to come back. He sat in an uncomfortable waiting room chair, bouncing his leg; his head jerked up every time he heard footsteps. Finally, after almost two and half hours, a nurse came for him.

“I’m Claire,” she said, leading him to the exam room. “Mr. Fury,” she said, “Dr. Hill is on her way.”

Nick nodded, leaning back on the bed; Bucky saw the wince that he tried to hide. “So,” Nick began, “looks like you’re on lawn duty for a while.”

Bucky blanched. “How can you joke right now?”

Nick eyed him for a moment, then replied, “I wasn’t aware I was joking.”

At that moment, a tall, slender woman entered the curtained area. “Mr. Fury,” she sighed. “We meet again.”

Nick chuckled, “Yeah, I didn’t get your number last time, so I had to think of a way to see you.”

Whether she found the joke amusing or not, she didn’t react. “No fracture,” she said, simply. “But I do see bone loss around the socket. I’m going to schedule further testing.”

“Further testing?” Bucky asked, suddenly anxious.

“It’s fine,” Nick said, nonchalantly.

The doctor watched Nick closely before she said, “Who are you?”

“I’m James Barnes, Nick’s my uncle,” he answered in a rush.

She looked back and forth between them, clearly noting the difference in race, but said nothing about it. Instead, she explained, “It may be due to age or it may be hereditary; it could also be Rheumatoid Arthritis or hormone issues.” Bucky’s body went cold as she went on, but she gave him a small, reassuring smile. “We’ll run some tests.”

“Is that why you broke your hip before?” Bucky asked, hearing the distress in his voice.

“I broke my hip because I was on an unstable ladder,” he said, a hint of defensiveness in his tone.

Dr. Hill cocked an eyebrow but did not respond before excusing herself. Bucky’s hands shook and his knee bounced as he stared at the floor. “Nick…” he began, but was cut off.

“No, Bucky,” Nick said, keeping his tone relaxed and reassuring. “I understand why you’re scared and it’s okay to feel afraid.” Bucky couldn’t help the tears forming. “I’m not going anywhere, son,” Nick added and Bucky flung himself forward to hug him tightly.

Dr. Hill returned and gave Bucky a piece of paper with a list of different appointments on it. “I take it you will ensure he goes to these,” she said and Bucky nodded, taking it from her. Bucky thought she would leave then, but instead she asked, “How old are you?”

He was taken aback, but answered, “I just turned 19.” _Yesterday_.

She thought for a moment, then said, “It’s good of you to take care of him.”

He grimaced and shushed her, quickly, saying, “Don’t phrase it that way. He’s a bit… proud.”

Dr. Hill grinned and replied, “You don’t say.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve had seen the ambulance earlier that day and watched a panicked Bucky follow behind it in his car. Steve hoped that Nick was alright – though, they had not spoken in some time, Steve still cared about him.

But, after what happened, Steve was sure that Nick wanted nothing to do with him. He understood, though it cut like a knife when he thought about it.

Nick had been friends with Steve’s mom for a long time and they’d known each other well when Steve was growing up. He had been gone away at college when she had her stroke. Most of the neighbors avoided Steve after that. He didn’t blame them; he reminded them all of how unpredictable and unfair life was.

If he was honest with himself, he hadn’t wanted much to do with anyone after she died. He had tried to avoid people for the most part, hiding in his grief.

But Nick had stomped right into his life with coffee and stories, a lot of laughter, and a burst of confidence. The unfortunate and unintended byproduct of this improvement in Steve’s self-esteem was that he pursued a relationship with Brock.

 Steve knew it was by no means Nick’s fault. Everything that happened was no one’s fault but Steve’s. He let a monster into his life and, by the time he knew what he had done, that monster had taken over.

Steve knew he had no one to blame but himself.

That night, he saw the headlights pull up around eight-thirty and he went to his front door, cracking it open an inch. He could see Bucky heading to the porch with Nick’s arm wrapped around his shoulders for support.

Steve tried to turn his porch light on, but it flickered and went dark. Bucky’s head snapped up and Steve slammed his door shut.

He wanted to reopen it, to offer help, but he knew no good would come of it.

_“You know I’m the only one who’d ever put up with your fat ass.”_

Steve bit his lip and leaned against the door. His head felt fuzzy and he realized he hadn’t eaten since his salad at lunch. Rather than going to make himself something, however, Steve walked up the stairs and crashed into his bed.

The following day, Steve was surprised to find that Bucky was absent. He made his way to the attendance office, ignoring his lunch completely, and stood before the desk. He preferred to avoid this building when possible; he knew that he was a good teacher and his students liked him; he challenged them but was fair in his grading. However, he often wondered if he had only been offered the position because of his unfortunate relations. His uncle, Senator Brandt, was good friends with Principal Pierce, and he played golf with the head of the school board, Thaddeus Ross.

They never told him outright that he was hired due to nepotism, but neither of them ever seemed to like Steve or his teaching style.

Fortunately, Pierce was at lunch when Steve entered the main office. His secretary, the one who managed the daily attendance, was younger than Steve, but she was always friendly. He especially liked her sassy attitude with Pierce. He approached the desk and asked, “Hi Darcy, did B-, er – did James Barnes’ uncle call him out today?”

Darcy shook her head. “No, he called for himself.”

Steve frowned. “Can he legally do that, as a minor?”

Darcy’s eyes twinkled with mischief behind her glasses, and she replied, “He’s 19.”

“What?” Steve asked, eyes going round.

“Didn’t Wanda tell you?” She asked, her eyebrows knit together. “Pierce gave her the low-down when she was supposed to show him around. Since she asked you to step in, I figured she told you.”

Steve shook his head. “No. She didn’t.”

Darcy frowned and explained, “He was in an accident, I heard. He was down for months and couldn’t finish school.”

“Why didn’t he just finish where he lived before?” Steve wondered.

“He was just going to get his GED, I guess, but changed his mind,” Darcy said, tucking some of her dark hair behind her ear. “He’ll have to do some summer school but he’ll graduate after that.”

Steve’s heart began to pound. He swallowed around a dry throat, hearing it click. He took a drink from his water bottle, hoping that it would soothe the hunger pains a bit. Darcy didn’t seem to notice his demeanor change; if she did, she ignored it.

“His uncle broke his hip last year,” she went on, unaware that Steve already knew that. “Recently, he’s been having a harder time at home by himself.” Steve just barely concealed the wince, remembering how selfish he’d been since…

“Where are his parents?” Steve asked, shaking himself.

Darcy’s cheeriness faded as she replied, “They died. He was with them on a train that derailed, I heard.”

He stood in shock, trying to reconcile that amount of loss and responsibility with the lighthearted man he’d met. Bucky had mentioned that he’d moved in with Nick recently but Steve presumed as his _ward_ , not his caregiver.

Then he wondered, when he had stopped seeing Bucky as a student… and begun to see him as a _man_.

That evening, Steve stood by the window, clenching his hands to his chest. He wanted to look, to see if Bucky was in the kitchen again. From his office, Steve could see part of what he knew was Nick’s dining table and directly into the kitchen window. Having been in the house, himself, he recognized the rooms.

The other night, he hadn’t meant to watch; hadn’t meant to be creepy; and he definitely hadn’t meant for Bucky to catch him. As he graded papers, he’d heard Bucky’s voice, playful and sweet – so different than the voice he had in school. The total silence of Steve’s house made it easy to hear his close neighbors, even when he took his hearing aid out at night sometimes.

As he stood there, touching the drape with his shaking hand, he could hear music coming from next door. He knew Nick had never played anything when he cleaned and he definitely wouldn’t listen to Sia. Steve felt the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement as he imagined how Nick would respond to hearing one of her songs.

If he listened, he could hear another voice over the music. Steve wanted to see Bucky and recognize what he now knew of him. Taking a deep breath, he gripped the curtain gently, then pulled it to the side by an inch.

There, at the sink, was Bucky. His hair was down in waves and he looked to be swaying and… singing.

Steve leaned his head against the window, trying to breathe as quietly as he could, as if Bucky might hear him and look up. As he watched, Steve finally recognized the height, the definition of his jawline, the wide shoulders – it all spoke to Bucky’s physical development. He was not some pubescent teenager; not a ward needing a place to live.

Bucky was an adult that had made a decision to move into his uncle’s home to care for him.

Suddenly, the feelings Steve had, came into perspective – he was _attracted_ to Bucky and, while not ideal, it wasn’t _wrong._

It could be okay.

But, while Steve had feelings for Bucky, it did not mean that Bucky saw Steve that way at all.

_“Who else would waste their time on someone like you?”_

Steve let the curtain shut and closed his eyes, pressing his hands over his ears, as if he could keep the voice out.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky offered to stay home again but that idea was nixed when Nick all but shouted, “Get your ass to school!” Bucky chuckled all the way out the front door and, as he pulled away, he saw Ms. Maximoff arrive.

In his rearview mirror, Bucky saw Steve rushing to the car as he usually did, as if something were chasing him.

His morning began normal normally: Mr. Quill sent the class on a circuit that focused on running and jumping and Mr. Stark kept a blank face as his son made one sarcastic comment after another. Then it was time for AP US History and, if he was honest with himself, he always felt a little nervous about seeing Steve.

But something was wrong. When Bucky walked into the room, Steve sat at his desk, shuffling papers around and appearing to all the world that he was reviewing homework assignments. However, from Bucky’s position, he could see that they had already been graded.

Without comment, Bucky took his seat and waited for the class to fill in, while watching Steve out of the corner of his eye. He fiddled with the papers on his desk, clicked around on the computer, and cleaned his glasses – but he hadn’t spoken to Bucky.

In fact, it looked like he was trying to avoid even looking at Bucky. His skin was flushed and he looked… nervous. Shy, even. Bucky worried his lip, wondering if he was the cause.

His question was answered when Nat and Carol walked in and Steve visibly relaxed. At first, Bucky felt guilty – he worried that he’d made Steve uncomfortable; that he’d somehow crossed a line. He worried that Steve was upset about Nick and the ambulance, or maybe he was mad Bucky missed school.

He wondered if Steve felt embarrassed for having been caught watching him.

Class went normally, though, and, regardless of Steve’s apparent discomfort, he had a _presence_ in the classroom. He taught with all of the confidence and charm that he lacked outside. It was especially apparent after their encounter at Steve’s house. There had been no sign of this person when they stood on Steve’s sidewalk.

Bucky liked this Steve; he made eye contact and could be snarky, but always listened with obvious respect for his students.

But, seeing Steve as he naturally was, Bucky wondered if he was incorrect in his initial assessment. For all of his fear the day he had collapsed, Steve had set and maintained a firm boundary, one that Bucky had accepted without question. Not that he wouldn’t have, but it made Bucky feel more comfortable, should they ever…

 _Wait, what?_ Bucky shook himself. He repeated, over and over, _Steve is not into me. Steve is not into me._

But something about it felt false. The stolen glances; the way he only really smiled with Bucky; the almost constant blush and how he flustered so easily.

_Does Steve… like me?_

His eyes widened and he stared at his notebook as if the answers would spring from it.

When the bell rang, Bucky shot up like a rocket and rushed out of the room. He spared no glance for Steve and hurried to his next class.

When the day ended, he had all but forgotten about those questions. He drove home and hurried to change his clothes and start dinner. Because of his fall, Nick had moved into the first floor guest room, but the bed was no better than a futon. When Nick entered the kitchen, using his cane, _finally_ , Bucky offered, “I thought I’d move the queen bed down here.” Nick’s eye narrowed and Bucky quickly added, “So, you’ll be more comfortable.”

“I’ll be back up those stairs in a couple days,” Nick argued. “You focus on dinner, then we’ll get out to the yard and finish clearing out those flower beds.”

Bucky shook his head, “You know, you keep up this stubborn attitude and that doctor’ll never take a shine to you.”

Nick looked affronted, holding his hand up to his chest in shock. “What do you mean? She’s already taken a shine to me.”

“ _Sure_ ,” Bucky said, chuckling. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Nick cocked an eyebrow and stood, poised to speak, but then seemed to change his mind. Bucky was no master chef, but he was competent in the kitchen; he diced the onion and peppers, sautéed them with garlic, and added the cubed chicken. When Bucky first moved in, Nick had been eating microwave dinners or ordering out and, while Bucky wasn’t opposed to takeout, he tossed all of the freezer meals. Since then, he’d made sure that he was home to cook or had something set up in the crock pot for Nick to simply turn on.

Nick was quite happy with the arrangement as well, it seemed.

When the potatoes finished baking, Bucky prepared a salad and called Nick in. They served themselves then took their seats at the table. “How was school today?” Nick asked, grinning though Bucky wasn’t sure why.

“It was… fine,” he answered, warily. “What is it?”

Nick continued smirking, but shook his head, “Nothing.”

Bucky took a few bites, waiting for Nick to elaborate further, but he didn’t. He did continue to watch Bucky off and on, never relaxing that grin. After they ate, Bucky cleared the dishes and went to the backyard to rip dead flowers out of the raised beds that he and Nick had built. It was after six, but the sun was still up and he started to sweat faster than he anticipated. He pulled his black t-shirt over his head, dropping it onto the patio step, then returned to his task.

Bucky knew that Nick would come out to work, too, and he had a flash of worry about him kneeling on the hard ground. To head this off, Bucky pulled two patio chairs over and sat them by each box, claiming one for himself. When Nick _did_ come outside, it was clear that he knew what Bucky was doing but he didn’t question or argue. Instead, Nick took the other seat and Bucky was sure he saw a small smile on his face.

They worked in silence for some time before Nick announced, “We’ve made good work today.”

Bucky nodded, turning slightly. “Yeah, once we get this done, I can add new soil to these and the beds around the patio.”

Nick smiled and nodded his head. “Alright, go get in the shower before the neighbor faints.”

Bucky’s head shot up to find Steve, standing by his window. His eyes went wide and he twisted away, letting the curtain close again. Bucky turned to Nick and found that _same_ grin from earlier.

“See you inside, Buck,” Nick said, leaning heavily on the railing as he stepped onto the patio.

Bucky realized then that his heart was pounding and he knew he was blushing. He took a few moments to breathe, then he glanced up and saw the curtains moving, as if someone had just let them fall shut again.

“Shit,” he whispered to himself.

He had no idea how to even approach Steve as a potential partner, or if he would even accept Bucky’s advances, let alone reciprocate them. He wiped his forehead, though the sweat had begun to cool in the evening air.

He’d had boyfriends and girlfriends in the past, but this was different.

Or, was it? Bucky was an adult; he would be done with school in four months. He had already decided to go to the local community college so he could stay with Nick.

It could _work_ … if Bucky could get Steve out of that shell.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Steve’s chest hurt and he rushed to his briefcase, pulling out a rescue inhaler. He used it, held his breath, then released; then again.

 _Bucky_ , the nineteen-year-old, caring, sweet, funny, and _beautiful_ man was outside – without his shirt on. Steve hadn’t meant to stare. He had heard Bucky’s voice but tried to ignore it, tried to focus on grading and finishing his diet coke. When his thoughts turned to food in order to avoid what he truly craved, he only intended to see what Bucky was doing. But he’d wound up standing there for almost ten minutes, watching the way Bucky’s muscles moved beneath his sweat-slick skin.

Steve had lived for months in this seclusion but hadn’t been bothered by it until the recent weeks. Something about Bucky made Steve want to see outside, to be there. He remembered the way soil felt under his nails, the sting of aloe on sunburnt skin, and the joy of seeing something _grow_ , something he had nurtured.

When he was honest with himself, he realized that they were things he _missed_. But he no longer felt safe doing them. Seeing Bucky garden, carefree and happy, Steve was forced to examine pieces of himself that he had long since avoided. The parts that were most damaged.

But, he remembered, when he stood outside with Bucky, he hadn’t felt that way. He hadn’t felt like he was broken or weak. He felt _okay_. Bucky made him feel like he could be okay again.

His stomach growled loudly and he went into the kitchen; he reheated some beans and brown rice he hadn’t finished the night before. However, after eating a few bites, the food sat heavy in his stomach.

_“I don’t know why you think you should eat so much. It’s disgusting.”_

He raced to the trash and heaved every bit of his dinner into it. His body shook as he gagged for several more minutes, only releasing bile after the first time. He felt exhausted but knew the vomit smell would fill the house quickly. He took a breath and pulled the bag out the can, then tied it, and carried it toward the front door. He had to stop every few feet, though, to rest before he continued on.

He tried to turn the porch light on, but it only flickered. It was twilight, leaving enough light for him to see his way to the garbage can.

He turned each lock, casting nervous glances out the small windows on the door, until it finally swung open. He reached the top step when he saw a person out of the corner of his eye. He turned to find Bucky, heaving his own trash bag to the dumpster.

Steve meant to wait until Bucky was back inside before moving, meant to stay quiet, but he _couldn’t_.

“B-Bucky,” Steve called and he turned, smiled _that smile_ and walked over.

Bucky’s hair was wet, framing his face in adorable ringlets that Steve wanted to touch. He was both relieved and regretful that Bucky was wearing a shirt, though he had to keep his eyes from wandering anyway.

“Hey, Steve,” Bucky said, then his smile faded a bit. “You okay? You look really pale.”

Steve swallowed around a dry throat, narrowly avoiding gagging again at the taste in his mouth. “Yeah, Buck, I’m fine,” he said, though he didn’t sound like it.

Bucky nodded, then stood there for another moment. “Here,” he said, somewhat awkwardly, and reached his left hand out. “Let me take your bag too. I’m heading there anyway.”

Steve wanted to protest, but he couldn’t deny his exhaustion. “Th-thank you.”

He hefted the bag and leaned forward, worried he might fall over, but he didn’t. Bucky took it from his hand and Steve caught the way he winced as he did so. He wanted to ask about that arm, about the scarring, the accident, but all of those questions died in his throat.

As Bucky turned to walk toward the dumpster, Steve asked, “Will you come to art class tomorrow?”

He had no idea where the question had arisen from, nor the courage to ask it. He couldn’t have cared less, though, because Bucky beamed at him and replied, “I plan to.”

Steve was smiling before he even realized it and was reminded how long it had been since he’d done it. The muscles in his face felt weak, as though they had atrophied and he found himself hoping that would change because of Bucky.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Steve said before turning to go back into his house.

He didn’t eat that night; instead, he brushed his teeth and went to bed. But, for the first time in he couldn’t remember how long, Steve didn’t feel the need to make sure his windows were locked or recheck the deadbolts on his door.

As he drifted off to sleep, Steve felt comfortable in his bed.

The next day, Steve chose not to let his nerves dictate whether or not he interacted with Bucky. When Steve looked up to find him there, he smiled and said, “Morning, Buck.”

Obviously surprised by Steve’s demeanor, Bucky replied, “Morning, Steve.”

It was then that Steve realized Bucky had forgone the use of his last name for some time and not only had Steve not noticed it, he didn’t really care. The use of ‘Mr. Rogers’ by his students had always sounded weird for him but, the truth was, he liked the way his name sounded when Bucky said it.

Bucky came to Steve’s art class each afternoon it was held that week. Steve loved his bold color choices and use of large, swooping brush strokes. Bucky’s latest piece was abstract and Steve was sure that it was simply Bucky enjoying himself through experimentation, but Steve saw a lot in the images.

The choice of color always seemed purposeful; Bucky had used bright reds, greens, and yellows until Nick went to the ER, after which he used muted, earthy tones. Steve could see the shift from calm to anxious in the brushstrokes as well. Bucky was engrossed in it, so Steve kept moving.

He made his rounds to observe each student’s work several times and felt like an absolute gadabout.

He stopped behind Natasha’s stool, adjusting his glasses, and whispered, “Nat…”

Natasha was an exceptional artist. He enjoyed seeing her work in a more casual setting; in class, her poetry and short stories were dark but simple, a testament to how much effort she would put in. But her paintings were _beautiful_ and emotive, exposing the insecurities and pain she hid behind that smirk.

She had chosen a large canvas, creating a dark stage with deep red curtains as a backdrop. In the foreground stood four ballerinas in the midst of a synchronized dance. They wore traditional dresses and had pale skin; their heads were upturned, facing the spotlight, but their faces were blank. If it were another student, Steve may have wondered if the faces were a last detail that they would add, but knowing Natasha, it was clear that the blank slate was intentional.

“I danced when I was young,” she said, though she kept her eyes on the painting.

“Did you like it?” He asked, tucking his hands into his pockets.

Nat didn’t answer right away but Steve could tell by the set of her shoulders that she was uncomfortable. Finally, she whispered, “We were… mistreated at the school I went to. This,” she pointed to the backdrop of heavy, red curtains, “we called it the ‘red room.’ I always wanted to paint it but felt too afraid.”

Steve swallowed, feeling her words resonate with something inside him. He commented, “It’s incredibly brave of you to… do it in spite of your fear.”

She eyed him over her shoulder and Steve felt his stomach clench. It seemed as though she _knew_ that he, too, felt afraid to share his pain. However, she simply said, “You’ve helped me find my courage, Mr. Rogers.”

Steve felt his eyes begin to water and he took his glasses off to wipe them. “I – thank you, Nat,” was all he could say.

That night, Steve opened the door to his basement and slowly walked down the stairs. He avoided the steps that groaned, almost as if someone might still hear him – as if those ears were still everywhere, waiting to catch him.

He made it to the bottom with barely a sound and walked across the cool concrete floor to the far wall. On a shelf there, he found what he sought, though it was in pieces. He touched the sharp edges and sighed, but took it in his hands and carried it upstairs.

He kept it pressed to his body, as if he alone could heal its broken pieces.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

On Friday afternoon, Bucky hurried home to find Nick waiting for him on the porch. “Come on, come on, Nick!” Bucky called through the passenger window. “We don’t wanna be late!”

“If we are,” Nick grumbled, making his way down the porch steps, “it’s because you drive like an old lady.”

Bucky placed his hand on his heart in mock pain. “You _wound_ me, Nick,” he cried.

“Yeah, yeah,” Nick chuckled as he slowly eased himself onto the passenger seat. “What’s this appointment for again?” He asked, sounding just as put out as he looked.

“It’s your physical therapy consult,” Bucky explained without a hint of irritation. “You went to, uh, Hydra before, right?” Bucky asked.

“Yeah,” Nick answered, but Bucky couldn’t decipher his tone. “Never goin’ back there.”

Bucky wanted to ask about it but Nick had that look on his face, the one that told Bucky in no uncertain terms that _it would not be discussed_. They arrived at Pym Rehabilitation after a twenty minute drive and Bucky pulled into a parking spot. He had made the mistake of parking in a disabled space with Nick _once_ ; he never did that again.

They walked inside and Bucky approached the desk. “Hi, I’m James Barnes,” he began. “My uncle, Nick Fury, has an appointment with Phil Coulson.”

The receptionist, a thin man with dark hair, whose nametag read ‘Scott,’ smiled and said, “Alright, I’ll check you in. Phil’s running a few minutes behind but he’ll come get you soon.”

Bucky smiled, “Thanks.” He walked back to where Nick sat, uncomfortably, and took his own seat. “He’s gonna be a few minutes,” Bucky explained.

Nick sighed, “We could just leave.”

Bucky frowned and said, “Absolutely not. You winced at every little bump on the ride over. You need to get checked out.”

“Dr. Hill _already_ checked me out,” he argued.

Bucky chuckled, “And _she_ scheduled this appointment.”

Nick continued to grumble something about “ _I’m_ an adult, you know” but cut himself off, tensing as footsteps approached.

“Hey Nick,” a deep voice said and Bucky looked up to find a tall, dark haired man with a ruggedly handsome face and nearly black eyes.

“No,” Nick grit out through clenched teeth and Bucky’s hackles rose. “My appointment is with Phil Coulson.”

“Yeah,” the man said, smugly. “He’s running behind, so I figured I’d get you started.”

Nick was about to live up to his last name but Bucky said, “We’ll just wait for Phil.” His tone brook no arguments and a flash of rage passed over the man’s face before he concealed it with a smile.

“No biggie,” he said, though his tone was by no means light. “See you around, Nick. Say ‘hi’ to Steve for me.”

Nick jumped up, hiding the wince well enough that Bucky barely caught it. “Rumlow, you stay _away_ from Steve, you –” but Nick hissed in pain, almost collapsing to his seat.

“Don’t worry so much, Nick,” Rumlow said and he began to turn away. “Steve knows what’s good for him.”

Bucky had no idea what was happening but he knew that this guy was disparaging Nick _and_ Steve, so he stood up, intent on taking a swing at him, but Nick pulled him back. “He ain’t worth it, son,” he said.

Bucky glowered at Rumlow, furious, but he sat back down and the other man walked away. Bucky turned to Nick and asked, “Who the fuck was _that_?”

Nick simply shook his head and said, “We’ll talk about it later.”

“ _Later_?” Bucky hissed. “Nick, I’ve never seen you like that.”

“ _Later_ ,” Nick repeated, a warning in his voice.

Just as Bucky was about to argue, a short, balding man approached them, smiling. “I am so sorry,” the man said. “I’m Phil Coulson. Are you Nick?” He stepped over to Nick and held out his hand.

Nick shook it and used his cane to stand himself up. Bucky didn’t offer to help, knowing that Nick would neither accept nor appreciate it. They followed behind Phil, whose smile seemed completely sincere, though Bucky could see a hint of something behind it – something that he may even call _anger_. It was well concealed, though, and Bucky thought nothing of it after they entered an office with three chairs, a massage table, and a desk. Phil took the seat behind it and laid a file out in front of him. Nick and Bucky filed into the other chairs, both silent and contemplative.

Bucky wanted to know who Rumlow _was_ and what he was to Steve; he wanted to know why Nick had reacted that way to Rumlow’s mere mention of him.

The pieces of Steve’s puzzle were coming together; though, they formed a story that Bucky couldn’t follow yet.

“Alright, Nick,” Phil began, “tell me what brings you in today.”

Nick didn’t miss a beat. “My dick of a nephew.”

Phil’s initial reaction was shock, followed by a quiet chuckle. “I can see that,” he said, nodding at Bucky.

He sighed and said, “Nick fell last week. He couldn’t stand up by himself –”

Nick scoffed. “Could too if you hadn’t been mother hen-ing me.” But Bucky ignored him and continued.

“– I called an ambulance and he got an x-ray taken. It isn’t broken but it hurts him to sit, stand, and bend over; he can’t lie on his right side, either.”

Phil listened attentively, writing notes on a yellow pad as Bucky related the information. Every now and then, he paused to ask a question, such as, “What kind of PT have you done in the past?”, “Have you continued your previous exercises?”, and “Are you comfortable with your nephew assisting with exercises at home?”

Bucky tried to conceal his total shock when Nick answered, “Yes, I am.”

Phil smiled and said, “I’m glad to hear that.”

“One question,” Nick interjected, quickly, and Phil nodded. “You will be the only therapist I work with while here.”

Though it was phrased as a statement, Nick’s tone came off as more of a plea and Phil blinked. “Yes, if – um, if you’d prefer that.”

A tension Bucky hadn’t even seen seemed to melt off of Nick’s shoulders, and he said, “Okay.”

Phil led them back to the lobby and they approached the front desk again. “Scott,” Phil said, “can you schedule Nick for ten weeks with me?”

Scott nodded, “Sure can.”

“And,” Phil added, “if there are weeks I’m booked, move someone to Hope or Brock’s schedules.”

Scott blinked in surprise but nodded. “Okay.”

They worked out a schedule to ensure Bucky would not miss school and Scott gave them a printout with the appointment information on it. “Thank you,” Bucky said as they turned to leave the building.

The moment Bucky slammed the car door, he turned to Nick and all but _roared_ , “Who the _fuck_ was that and what did he have to do with Steve?”

“No, Bucky,” Nick said. “It is not my place to tell you Steve’s business.”

The pieces were forming a picture – one Bucky wished he didn’t have. It felt wrong to imagine; it made him sick to his stomach. He frowned and asked, carefully, “Did he hurt Steve?”

Nick looked away and Bucky wondered if he would answer, or just repeat ‘ _It’s not my place._ ’ To his surprise, though, Nick said, “Steve has always been… well, he was a sickly kid. Didn’t have many friends; never had a boyfriend that I know of.” Nick’s jaw muscle twitched. “Then his mom died. That much hurt and loneliness doesn’t leave a man capable of much happiness.”

Bucky listened closely, reading between the lines of Nick’s statements. “So… Rumlow was maybe the first person to give Steve the time of day.”

Nick nodded once, a jerk of the head. “Rumlow was charismatic, handsome to look at, and he could be _sweet_. But it’s all a sugary coating to hide the rot underneath.”

Bucky swallowed around a suddenly dry throat; he could imagine the things Steve experienced but thought were normal or loving. He realized that Steve had never known _love_ beyond his mother’s and maybe Nick’s. Steve couldn’t accept a compliment; he apologized for everything; he hid inside his home like a prisoner; and he had panicked when another man tried to go in his house.

“Oh, God.” Bucky covered his face with his hands, trying to conceal the tears that had begun to fall.

“Hey, son,” Nick said, reaching over and touching Bucky’s shoulder. “He’s not some busted doll. Don’t treat him differently now.” Bucky sniffled and met Nick’s gaze. “He hadn’t so much as _touched_ those curtains in months. He’s _healing_ and it ain’t ‘cause of me.”

Bucky took a shaky, wet breath and asked, “What happened between you two?”

Nick sighed, readjusting in his seat. “I put my nose in his life. I thought it was the right thing. Thought I was helping.” He scoffed, then, shaking his head. “Lost my _one_ good eye… maybe I had that comin’.”

Bucky leaned across the console and pulled Nick into a hug, but released him quickly when Nick hissed in pain. “Sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay,” Nick replied. “I love you, Buck,” he added, smiling. “But can we go home now? I’m starving.”

Bucky let out a surprised laugh and nodded. “Yeah, I have taco meat in the crock pot.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Steve sat in front of his canvas, comfortable there for the first time in months. He couldn’t explain why he felt _safe_ there when he’d been afraid to touch it for so long.

_“Don’t quit your day job. You think someone wants to hang your shit up?”_

He clenched his jaw and, though his hand shook, he lifted it to continue painting the petals on the flower. Having completed the landscape piece the week before, he only had one image in mind to work on next. Whereas the last painting had been done in muted colors, this one was _electric_. He used bright red and pink, lustrous greens, and bold, earthy colors.

With a familiar ease, Steve had crafted the picture he had set in his mind over the last week. He was so focused on the movement of his brush across the canvas, he didn’t notice that Bucky had moved around the room and was standing next to him.

“That’s beautiful,” Bucky breathed and Steve only just stopped himself from jumping in shock.

“Bucky,” he gasped. “You startled me.”

Bucky smiled and said, “Not surprised. You were totally focused.”

Steve nodded, watching as Bucky turned back to the painting and continued admiring it. His eyes moved over it with _reverence_ , as if it were something amazing, something marvelous. Steve stared at it too, trying to find what Bucky could see.

“My mom,” he began, hesitantly. “She had this vase,” Steve pointed to his reproduction. “She always had chrysanthemums in it. She told me the story when I was young, too young to really understand it.”

Bucky had pulled a stool next to Steve and sat down, waiting; grey eyes fixed on Steve with the same expression he’d given the painting. It was so avid, it made Steve blush but he kept speaking. He kept his voice low so he didn’t draw the attention of the other students, though he really needn’t have bothered, as most of them had headphones in.

“This,” he pointed to a figure on the vase, “is Hercules.”

Steve had tried to mimic the Greek painting style, thus the characters were nude. Hercules was bent forward, one foot stood on a rock and he leaned on that knee, looking at another man. The second figure stood with his back to them and had his hand around Hercules’ head, appearing to pull him closer.

Bucky leaned forward and pointed at him. “Who’s that?”

Steve smiled, “That’s his lover, Hylas.”

Bucky turned to Steve, “Hercules was married though. To a woman.”

Steve chuckled, nodding his head. “Yes, he did marry, but in ancient Greece, male lovers were not uncommon.”

Bucky turned back to the painting, taking stock of it. “What happened to them?”

Steve sighed, “They joined the Argonauts. But, while near a spring, Hylas was seen by water nymphs who found him to be beautiful. They kidnapped him.”

“Hercules saved him?” Bucky asked but something in his tone struck Steve; it was as though he were no longer talking about mythology.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “He searched and searched, giving up his quest with the Argonauts, but they never saw one another again.”

Bucky met Steve’s eyes with a heavy gaze and an ardent expression. Steve felt himself breathing faster as Bucky watched, a light blush on his tan cheeks. Those eyes widened for a moment and Steve knew he needed to look away but he didn’t _want_ to. Bucky, however, blinked and leaned back; his expression didn’t change but his blush spread.

Steve felt foolish. _Of course Bucky’s not interested in kissing me_. Then his own eyes widened and he felt his whole body heat up in embarrassment. _Do I want him to?_ He wondered, keeping his eyes on the painting.

_“No wonder I’m the first. You can’t do anything right, not even kiss me.”_

He shut his eyes, trying to block the voice out. He bit his lip, hoping the pain would ground him and keep him present.

“What kind of flower is that?” Bucky asked, suddenly.

Steve swallowed before answering, “It’s a ch-chrysanthemum.” He couldn’t explain why he continued, “They’re my favorite flower. My mom always had them all over the house.”

Bucky smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “Do you keep the tradition going?”

Steve clenched his fists over his thighs and shook his head. “No,” he breathed. “The vase… it got broken.”

Bucky’s eyebrows knit together. “How?”

Steve couldn’t explain why, but the way Bucky asked him almost felt like he was simply being perfunctory. It was like he already _knew_.

“It… it fell. Off a table.” Steve didn’t finish with _The table I was pushed into_. He clamped his mouth shut.

Bucky licked his lips and watched Steve for a moment, then replied, “Let me fix it.”

“Wh-what?”

Bucky leaned forward, suddenly excited. “I’ll fix it. Or I’ll help you,” he added quickly. “If we use certain glue, it can even still hold water. You could replant chrysanthemums in it.”

Steve swallowed and, before he realized what he was saying, he answered, “What if it _can’t_ be fixed?”

Bucky smiled _that_ smile; his nose wrinkled and his eyes lit up. “We won’t know unless we try.”

“Why do you want to?” Steve asked, frowning.

Bucky’s smile faltered for barely a second before it was back as bright as ever. He hesitated, then, and Steve couldn’t help but hope that Bucky would say something daring, something that told Steve he felt the same way.

Instead, though, Bucky said, “Nothing should stay broken if it can be fixed. Let me try.”

At some point, Steve felt like the vase had been forgotten completely and Bucky _was_ offering something else, something deeper and promising.

Something like a new beginning.

“Okay,” Steve said, quietly, and Bucky smiled like it was Christmas morning.

They set their plans for Saturday morning, though Steve would have to skip going to the store. _No loss there_ , he thought.

Bucky returned to his easel to put his painting on the rack, smiling giddily. Steve watched him for a moment longer, then checked the clock. There was only a few minutes left before Wanda would arrive, so he followed suit and folded his easel up.

As the students filed out of the room, Steve got the distinct impression that Bucky was waiting for him. When he had his briefcase, he walked over and said, “Do you need anything?”

Bucky’s eyes searched Steve’s face for a moment but he finally shook his head. “Just… wanted to walk out with you.”

Steve gulped but must have nodded, because they were moving together toward the door. Once they reached the parking area, Bucky hesitated, faltering in his steps. He turned to Steve as if he had the answer Bucky was looking for. But Steve had no answer for him – only more questions, really.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Bucky finally said, waving.

“Have a good evening,” Steve replied, then silently cursed himself for such a clinical response, but Bucky didn’t seem to notice it.

Steve waited for barely a minute before Wanda pulled up. “Hey, sorry I’m a little late,” she called through the window.

Steve shook his head, “No, don’t worry about it.”

He slid into the seat and rolled the passenger window up, basking in the cool air conditioning. “How was class?” She asked, conversationally as they left the campus.

_“Let me fix it.”_

He swallowed before answering, “It was… good.”

She glanced in the rearview mirror and asked, “That was James, right?” Steve nodded his head, feeling his face heat up. “You…” she hesitated, then continued, “think he’s a good student?”

 Steve kept his eyes forward but tried to observe her expression, which was impossible, he realized. “He’s… uh, why are you asking?”

They stopped at a red light and she turned to him. “God, you are _so_ red,” she said, chuckling.

Steve was terrified; his heart was pounding and he felt his breathing stutter in his chest. What would his best friend think of his _interest_ in a student? Would she be ashamed of him? Disgusted by him? Would she turn him in to Pierce?

“Steve,” she said, her voice soft and kind. “I know about his history. He’s… he’s a really good person,” she added, then turned back to the road as the light changed colors.

Steve wondered if she was trying to tell him that she approved of – whatever it was he was doing with Bucky. But she hadn’t come out and said a thing, so he let it drop.

That night, Steve tried not to worry about what Wanda had said to him. Instead, he sat down in front of the broken vase he had brought up from the basement. He gently touched the pieces, hoping the glue Bucky described would hold such heavy clay. Hercules’ face was intact on one chunk but Hylas was in several jagged pieces.

Steve grinned, bitterly, thinking, _Ain’t that the truth_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

On the way home, Bucky stopped at a small ceramics studio. It was designed to allow kids and families to learn how to make and glaze ceramics, but he hoped that someone could help him. Once he’d offered to help Steve, he realized that he had _no_ idea how to repair something like that.

He approached a young black woman wearing an absurdly bright orange apron with the name ‘Shuri’ embroidered on it. “Hi,” he said, trying to keep his cool.

“How can I help you?” She asked in an accent that surprised Bucky.

Shaking it off, he said, “I need… help.” He stood, wringing his hands while she seemed to assess him.

She raised an eyebrow and waved him over to the counter as she walked, chuckling, “I gathered that.” He smiled back as he followed. “You are new to ceramics,” she ventured.

He nodded, “Yes, uh, I offered to help… someone fix a clay vase but, um –”

“You don’t know how to,” she said, grinning.

He nodded, “Yep, that sums it up.”

She laughed and leaned down, pulling a Surface Book from beneath the counter. “Alright,” she began. “How did your girl break her vase?”

Bucky cocked an eyebrow at her assumption – close to the mark as it may be. “It’s – he’s not –”

Her smile grew and she actually seemed more invested suddenly. “Alright, how did your _boy_ break his vase?”

“It fell off of a table,” he explained. “It’s a heavy, clay vase, like those old Greek ones.”

It was her turn to cock her eyebrow and she said, “It takes a lot to break those. Get in a fight, did he?”

Her tone was teasing but the suggestion made Bucky’s stomach seize up. She caught the change, saw something in his face, and she frowned for the first time since he’d entered the shop. She did not comment further and, instead, opened up Google; she typed in Bucky’s search parameters and waited for the results to load.

“I sell this glue,” she said, pointing to the screen. “But you’ll also need a sealant if you intend to put water in the vase.”

“I’ll do it,” he answered immediately. “Whatever it takes.”

She stood up straight and grinned at Bucky. “You poor, white boy,” she said. “You’re in _deep_.”

Bucky wanted to argue but, at the same time, he knew she was right. He _was_ in deep. He had no idea when it had happened; he was in the middle before he even knew it had begun. What he was indelibly sure of was that he would do anything to see Steve’s crooked smile.

When Shuri spoke again, her tone was teasing and light. “I have a sealant, though I think it’s far more expensive than it should be, but my _brother_ sets the prices.”

She rolled her eyes and walked past Bucky to a rack on the far wall. She grabbed a bottle of clear substance that reminded Bucky of rubber cement, then she stood on her tippy toes to reach a can. Once she had it, she returned to the counter and set the items down.

“This,” she pointed to the can, “is glazing putty. It will be what you use to hold the pieces together. It is thick, so use it sparingly. It is also a good tan color and will be the closest thing to the color of a Greek vase.” She held up the bottle that really did look like it held rubber cement, and said, “This is the sealant. It’s clear but not shiny, so it will not draw attention to itself on a matte surface.”

Bucky listened closely as she spoke, then asked, “Do I need any kind of tools?”

“No,” she shook her head, “Just use your hands. You will have to be gentle with the smaller pieces of clay, as they may crumble if you put too much pressure on them with the putty.”

He nodded and said, “I’ll take them.”

“This is a bit expensive,” Shuri said, pointing to the sealant.

“I don’t care,” Bucky admitted easily.

She smiled at him indulgently, as if he were a younger sibling needing help with his homework. She put the information in her computer and he held out his debit card for her to swipe.

“Alright,” she said, handing his card back and turning the screen to face him. “Sign here.” He signed with his finger and left a tip, happily. “Thank you. Now, Mr.…”

Smiling, he answered, “It’s Bucky.”

She nodded and asked, “How do you feel now?”

He took a breath and replied, “Good. Thank you.”

She smiled at that and patted his shoulder. “If you need more help, come back. There is much more for you to learn.”

He chuckled as she turned away, “I don’t doubt it.”

As he walked out, he heard her mutter, “Poor white boy,” and he couldn’t help but laugh.

That evening, Bucky stood before the misty bathroom mirror after his shower. He used to pretend that, behind the fog, he would find a perfectly unmarred shoulder. Shaking his head, he hit the fan switch on the wall and, within a minute, the mirror was clear.

The scarring didn’t bother him as much anymore – not really. It took a long time for him to be comfortable with t-shirts, let alone being _shirtless_. But no one had laid eyes on the scarring except Nick, the doctors and nurses… and now Steve.

He looked over at his shoulder and remembered the way that Steve had glanced at it. Nothing in his expression showed even a hint of revulsion or shock at the sight. He had looked away, of course, but it seemed he did so out of respect.

It was difficult to forget that it was there; the joint would never be just right again, he knew, but he was grateful to have regained as much strength as he had. Bucky took a deep breath and pulled his white t-shirt on; he lifted his left arm slower than the right, trying to avoid the sharp pain that sometimes happened.

“Hey, Buck,” Nick called.

“Yeah,” he replied, opening the bathroom door and stepping out.

Nick stood at the bottom of the stairs, waiting. “Glad you’re finally out,” he said. “I need to get in there at some point this year.”

Bucky released a loud, mocking laugh as he made his way down the stairs to Nick’s side. Without asking, he took Nick’s right arm, pulling it around his neck, and they ascended the stairs. At the top, he didn’t let go and turned them into the open bathroom door.

Again, without asking, Bucky started the water and got the shower chair out of the cupboard. He unfolded it and set it on the tile inside the stall. He checked the water once more, then stepped out, but didn’t lock the door.

He walked to his bedroom and leaned against the window frame. The dishes were all done, the kitchen was clean, and his homework could wait until Sunday but that left him to his thoughts. He worried his lip, staring at Steve’s house; the light shown through the curtain, but only just, and Bucky wondered if that was Steve’s bedroom. He had known for months that his window faced Steve’s house but he had kept his own drapes closed out of respect.

He let his mind wander, imagining that Steve was across from him – maybe, he was thinking of Bucky too. He felt heat pool in his lower abdomen, wondering what Steve looked and felt like naked.

A shiver ran over him, though not from a chill – in fact, he felt warm, _too warm_. He wanted to feel Steve’s skin, taste it; he wanted to make Steve feel so incredible, those old hurts were forgotten – even for a minute. He imagined how Steve would look when he came, wanted to be the reason he looked that way.

Before he knew it, he was hard and straining against his sweatpants. He looked at Steve’s window again, wondered if Steve was behind those curtains, thinking of Bucky. He moved to his bed and shut his eyes, holding the image of Steve in his mind – hand around himself, chasing his pleasure. Bucky wanted to know if he was quiet or if he couldn’t contain his moans. He wanted to know if he liked it fast, or if he took his time, touching himself all over before finally giving in and reaching down.

Bucky was palming himself over top of his sweats; his heart was pounding and his breathing had picked up. “Oh, God,” he whispered, imagining Steve naked on his own bed mere _feet away_.

He couldn’t stand it anymore – Bucky pulled himself out of his pants and began stroking, focusing his attention on the head and the loose skin underneath it. He let his left hand wander down, rolling his balls in slow circles, then past them to his perineum. He gasped and bit his lip to keep himself quiet – he was close. He pulled his shirt up and began stroking faster, rubbing harder, imagining it was Steve’s hands, his voice telling Bucky, “ _Come for me, I wanna see it, Buck_.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Bucky hissed, arching his back as his vision went white and he felt wet streaks splash over his abdomen.

He lay there for another minute, letting his breathing slow down as his pulse did. He reached over to his nightstand and grabbed a couple tissues to wipe himself off, then tossed them in the trash. He walked back to his window and looked across the way, furrowing his eyebrows. Steve’s curtains were moving and Bucky could see an outline of a body – Steve.

Bucky turned away, face burning with embarrassment. He released a shaky breath and closed his curtains. He’d learn the next morning if Steve had seen everything.

Part of Bucky hoped he had.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve had never been so hard _in his life_. He held both hands against his chest, breathing fast and heavy; worried he was on the verge of an asthma attack. He rushed to his nightstand and grabbed his rescue inhaler just in case. After a moment, he realized that this wasn’t an asthma attack.

He didn’t know why he’d opened the curtain but, when he did, there was Bucky...

…touching himself.

At the memory, he felt his dick twitch in his pants and gasped. His entire body shook with desire, but beneath that, he couldn’t deny the fear coiling in his belly.

He pushed past it, refusing to let the trembling in his hands hold him back. He couldn’t recall the last time he had felt actual desire. He remembered the last time he’d had sex, sure, but there had been nothing on his side – no pleasure, no enjoyment, not even hate. He had been _numb_.

But no longer.

He lay back on his bed and shut the lamp off, hoping that the dark would make him braver. He clamped his eyes shut tight, too, and breathed through the anxiety as he allowed his hands to move. It wasn’t long before he was aching inside his pants, and he knew that if he didn’t hurry, the fear would come back and he’d lose the chance.

He gasped at how cool his fingers were when they wrapped around himself, but he didn’t let go. His strokes were slow at first, as he focused on Bucky – how he had looked as he did this same thing. Noting how Bucky had massaged his balls, Steve mimicked the movements. He wouldn’t go further – maybe he never would again, but the sensations were enough.

Within a minute, he knew he was close, and he doubled down on his motions. He thought to pull his shirt up too late, though, and cried out in shock and pleasure.

He focused on breathing – in and out, in and out – as his pulse slowed. He tucked himself into his pants before he turned the light back on, made his way to the bathroom, then carefully removed his shirt.

He tossed both it and his pants into the clothes hamper, then set his hearing aid and glasses on the counter. He adjusted the water temperature and stepped into the shower. The water hit his sensitive skin and he hissed, turning away from it.

The motion made him flinch as he recalled a similar action, one night a lifetime ago. The slap he’d seen the coming, but not the punch. Steve had turned away to run, but not fast enough, and Brock’s fist smashed into his lower back. Steve had stayed standing, but only just.

_“I do all this shit for you and you can’t even put out? As if I’d want to fuck your fat ass anyway.”_

Steve leaned heavily against the tile wall and covered his mouth to muffle the sounds of his sobs, as if someone might hear.

As if someone cared.

For the first time in days, Steve felt the need to check and recheck the locks before he fell into a fitful sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky was freaking out. He had cooked breakfast, then cleaned up the dishes, and, all the while, he kept glancing nervously toward Steve’s house. He worried his lip, trying to keep the images he had crafted the night before from overtaking his thoughts.

To avoid it, Bucky returned to his room to get dressed. It turned out, however, that deciding what to wear to flirt with – er, help one’s neighbor fix a vase was far more complicated than he could have anticipated. He stood in front of his dresser, pulling items out and staring at them before shaking his head and tossing each one aside.

“Buck, what the hell are you doing?” Bucky turned around to find Nick in his doorway, leaning on his cane.

“I, uh,” he swallowed. “I’m gonna, um – Steve, I offered to help Steve this morning.”

Nick’s eye went round and his jaw dropped, which was not the reaction Bucky had anticipated. Then, Nick shocked him again. He righted himself, standing up straight, and said, “The red Henley.”

“What?”

“The _red Henley_ ,” he repeated. “The one I got you.” Bucky blinked, turning back to his dresser; he pulled the shirt out and nodded his head. “It looks good on ya, Buck,” Nick added, then walked away.

He turned back to the drawers with a new sense of purpose. He found his dark skinny jeans and pulled them out as well. He knew it would get far too hot to stay in that outfit but it would stay right about sixty-five degrees for a while, so he could handle it. He did opt to wear his hair in a bun, though, because he recognized his limits.

He did, however, let some strands fall out in an attractive, messy look. He pulled the shirt sleeves up, exposing his forearms and some of the scarring, but Steve had already _seen_ everything.

If he’d seen what Bucky thought he had the night before, then Steve truly had seen _everything_.

He chuckled to himself, thinking, _Well at least that’s out of the way_.

After he was dressed, he grabbed the bag from the ceramics store and got his shoes on. Rather than walking out the door, however, he started to pace in front of it, biting his lip until it burned.

“Bucky,” Nick’s voice called from the stairs and he turned toward it. “What the hell are you doing now?”

“I – well, I –” he stuttered, pointing vaguely toward the door. “Just, um –”

“You don’t wanna stand the guy up, do you?”

Bucky shook his head, fervently, and said, “No, of course not.”

Nick’s lips twitched into a smug grin and he said, “Then get the hell out there.”

Bucky couldn’t suppress his own smile as he turned and left the house.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve waited at his door, trying to get his breathing under control. It wasn’t asthma, he knew, but he was still concerned that his nerves could trigger an attack. He heard Bucky’s front door shut and he took a deep breath before opening his own just a crack.

Bucky was walking across their yards, carrying a can and a bottle. He looked… Steve’s heart rate picked up. He suddenly wasn’t sure he could go through with this.

He was about the shut the door, about to shut the daylight out completely when Bucky stopped in his stride, then turned to walk back to his house. Then, he swung around and moved toward Steve’s house again before turning back around.

Steve couldn’t help but smile. Somehow, knowing that Bucky was nervous made Steve feel less so.

In fact, it made him feel _brave_.

He swung his door open and stepped out just as Bucky looked as though he wanted to spin on his heel and go back again.

“Forget something?” Steve teased and, even though his voice shook, he didn’t regret it.

Bucky seemed surprised at the comment before his face lit up. “No, I just… anyway,” he said; he came toward the porch but stopped on the grass a few feet away.

Steve swallowed. The moment felt heavy on them both and Steve knew it could either weigh everything down or liberate them.

“C-come on,” Steve said, waving Bucky forward.

Bucky’s eyes shone with something like awe and disbelief, but maybe pride as he took the few steps to the porch, then onto it. Steve wanted to comment on his hair and clothes, to tell him that he looked nice but so many things kept his lips shut.

Before Steve had to suggest that they sit outside, Bucky said, “We should stay here. The chemicals might, um, smell pretty strong.”

Steve released a breath and nodded, “I’ll get the vase.”

He stepped back into his front room and lifted the heavy clay off of the table and carried it outside. When Bucky saw it, he smiled and knelt down on the hardwood. Steve followed suit, though he sighed at the damage and disrepair. He glanced at the broken dowels and tried to keep from remembering when Brock had kicked them in a drunken rage.

He was pulled out of his thoughts when Bucky said, “Steve?”

Their eyes met and Steve shook himself. “So, uh, where do we start?”

Bucky looked at the vase, picking up pieces and fitting them together. “We’ll use this putty,” he said pointing to the tin. “She said to only use a little –”

“She?” Steve found himself asking as the corner of his mouth turned up.

Bucky smiled, his cheeks flushed pink as he answered, “Yeah, I had to, um – well, I actually didn’t know how to do this.” He rubbed the back of his neck, casting his eyes down. “I stopped at a ceramics store to get some guidance.”

Steve felt fluttering in his abdomen and his own face burned, but excitement raced up his spine. Bucky had gone out of his way to learn how to repair a vase… for _Steve_. He thought that Steve was worth the time and money to do something so trivial.

But, maybe, to Bucky, it wasn’t trivial. Maybe it was meaningful.

Smiling brighter than he had in months, Steve said, “Thank you, Buck.”

Bucky looked up at that and, seeing Steve’s expression, beamed back, crinkling his nose in that adorable way that Steve loved.

 _Wait_ , he thought, blinking. _Love?_

Steve shook himself and looked back down at the vase. “So,” he said, taking the larger pieces in hand, “should we start from the bottom and work our way up?”

Steve felt Bucky’s eyes on him and he wondered if Bucky saw how thin he was beneath his clothes. Without comment, Steve adjusted his sweatshirt to ensure it covered his collar bone. Despite the heat, he wore his gray pullover, a white t-shirt, and jeans. He couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t done so, even during the stifling heat of the previous summer.

But he didn’t think on it for long, because Bucky began speaking. “Sure, let’s start there. These big pieces will be easy.”

Steve watched, transfixed, as Bucky set to work. He opened the putty and then began fitting pieces together before applying a small amount of the tan substance. As he pressed each section to the next, he bit his lip; his grey eyes so focused, he could have no idea that Steve was staring so intently.

Except, Steve noticed, he was _blushing_. Then, he caught sight of a tremor in Bucky’s hands and heard it in his breath. Steve looked away and decided he should actually help, so he grabbed a piece and began searching for its pair. Oddly, he realized, he had found Hylas again, well, part of him; when the vase fell, it had cracked his body in half. Steve dug around, searching for the rest of him, almost anxious to find it.

“Here,” Bucky said, holding something up. “I think you’re looking for this.”

Steve took it and smiled, weakly, before fitting the halves together. “He’s still missing some bits,” Steve said, unhappily. “I think the vase must have landed right on him. He’s all scratched up, see?”

Steve held Hylas out and Bucky took him, gently, and looked him over. His thumbs moved over the mars in the paint, as if he were feeling the extent of the damage. “He’s got some scars, sure,” Bucky said, meeting Steve’s eyes, “but, then again, so does Hercules.”

Steve stared back and swallowed hard. He knew they weren’t talking about the vase; he wondered if they ever had been. The implication of that idea, the hope and promise it shared, made something heady bloom in Steve’s chest. He wanted to respond in kind, to give Bucky even a small bit of what he had given Steve.

“H-Hercules was always stronger than Hylas,” he finally said, then regretted it.

Bucky, however, merely smiled and replied, “Strength isn’t what makes people survivors. When people live, every day, in spite of… what they’ve been through, that’s not strength, or at least, not _just_ strength.”

Steve felt his whole body heat up. “What else is it?”

“That’s courage, Steve,” Bucky replied, eyes blazing with something Steve couldn’t identify.

He couldn’t look away; Bucky’s gray eyes were bright in the morning light and his cheerful smile felt like a promise. Without realizing it, Steve had leaned forward a bit, glancing at Bucky’s mouth. For his part, Bucky licked his lips as he searched Steve’s face, nervously, and he, too, moved closer.

They were only a few inches apart when Steve’s brain woke up and he gasped, shifting back. Bucky continued to watch him, intently, for another moment before he returned his attention – and his smile – to the vase.

Steve’s brows furrowed as he observed Bucky continuing to work. He had expected Bucky to leave, to become frustrated with Steve and storm off, but he didn’t. He continued connecting pieces and securing them with putty as if whatever that was had never happened. All the while, however, he continued smiling, as if Steve hadn’t pulled away.

As if something had been confirmed for him.

Steve blinked a few times before he took some clay into his shaking hands and followed Bucky’s example. They worked quietly, reforming the base, then Bucky said, “Let’s let it sit for a few minutes before we weigh it down with the upper pieces.”

Steve nodded, recognizing the logic in that, then he sat back against the front door, feeling the heat begin to encroach on them. Bucky seemed to feel it too, as he pushed his own shirtsleeves up, exposing more of his muscular arms as well as the scarring.

Without thinking, Steve asked, “How did you end up here?”

Bucky’s face made it clear he hadn’t been expecting such a bold question. “It’s kind of a long story,” he hedged, watching Steve’s face.

Taking a breath, Steve replied, “I’ve got time, Buck. But you don’t have –”

“No,” Bucky said, “it’s alright. I mean, I’m sure you already know _some_ of it.” Steve nodded but gave no response, so Bucky continued. “My, uh, my parents died fourteen months ago,” he explained. “We were going from Shelbyville to West Lafayette – uh, Indiana,” he added. “I’d been accepted to Purdue and we were going to tour the campus. The train we were on had a lot of safety issues, which we didn’t know at the time, of course, but it was cheap. Our car was down for some reason – I forget, but I was so excited to go by train anyway.” He shook his head with a sad smile on his face. “So stupid now,” he breathed. “I was in the coach seats but they were on the viewing deck when the train derailed. Nick explained what happened once, but I don’t remember any of it.”

“I’m so sorry, Buck,” Steve said, yearning to reach out, comfort him, hold him.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling a far diminished version of his normal one. “Nick flew to Indiana to be with me but he’s retired from the Army and owns his house here. My parents left me the house in Shelbyville.”

This information reaffirmed what Steve already knew – that Bucky was not some ward in need of a place to live.

“My other uncle,” Bucky continued, “Aldrich called me at the hospital. He offered me to move into his house in West Lafayette, but said I’d have to pay him $3,000 a month.” He scoffed and shook his head. “I got my parents’ life insurance and I got a massive payout from the railway but Nick didn’t care for any of that. He just… comforted me.”

Steve could easily see Nick’s response to the knowledge that this Aldrich had attempted to swindle Bucky out of the money his family had left him. It made Steve sick to imagine that someone would do such a thing, but he knew full well what people could be capable of.

“Your arm was injured?” Steve asked, taking a deep breath.

Bucky nodded, “While I was under, they did the shoulder replacement surgery.”

He suddenly recalled the way that Bucky had winced when taking his garbage and how he favored his left arm. “Under?” Steve asked.

“I suffered head trauma and had brain swelling, so they put me in a coma until it went down.” Bucky thought for a moment, then answered, “Nick said it was twelve days. You know, it’s funny,” he said without a hint of humor. “I got on that train at seventeen with a really exciting future, but when I woke up, I was eighteen and I couldn’t remember my parents’ names.”

Steve frowned, seeing how much pain Bucky had experienced and, while he hadn’t been alone, Steve knew that there was not much that could ease that. He remembered how awful it had been when he’d received the news about his mom.

Before he knew what he was doing, Steve had reached out and taken Bucky’s hand; it was warm and calloused which, Steve presumed, was due to his gardening and other housework.

Bucky’s eyes were bright but there was a sheen over them, wet with unshed tears. He gripped Steve’s hand back and continued, “When I was discharged from the hospital, Nick drove me home and stayed the first few days with me.” The expression on his face and his tone spoke to an affection for Nick that Steve may never have known Bucky had. “He promised he’d come back if I needed him but I figured that was the last time we’d see each other. But a couple months later, he fell and broke his hip.”

Steve nodded his head. “I called the ambulance that day.”

Bucky’s smile turned deeply affectionate as he said, “Thank you, Steve. I don’t… I don’t know what I would have done if I lost him too.”

Steve’s eyes widened and he blushed heavily. “It’s – that’s not necessary, Buck.”

Bucky looked as if he were about to argue but changed his mind. Instead, he continued, “I visited over Christmas and saw how he was struggling. He wouldn’t admit it or _ask_ for help but I could tell. I didn’t tell him but, when I went home, I put the house up for sale.”

Steve was awash with admiration, knowing that Bucky had given up so much to be with his uncle, to take care of him, made heady emotions flood his chest.

“Wow, Buck,” Steve said, lamely.

Bucky laughed suddenly and wiped his eyes. He shook his head and asked, “Can I ask why you wanted to know?”

“I…” Steve began, but hesitated.

He didn’t know what to say. He wanted to tell Bucky that he was merely curious, or could tell him he was asking as a teacher. He could say he wanted to get to know Bucky as a neighbor.

But all of those were lies.

The truth was he wanted to know everything he could about Bucky. He wanted to hear from him, directly, that he wasn’t a child; that he wanted to do more than fix Steve’s vase; that Steve meant something to him…

But he didn’t say any of that. Instead, he changed the subject entirely. “I think it’s dry enough now.”

Bucky didn’t seem at all phased by his avoidance and he pressed on the base a bit, possibly checking that the structure would hold. “Yeah,” he agreed with a smile, “it looks like it.”

Bucky spent a few minutes figuring out which pieces fit where, then he took more putty and began securing them. Steve watched Bucky’s hands, struck by the tenderness with which he worked. He realized that Bucky used the same gentle touch when he pulled the weeds out of the flower beds, or held Steve up.

Steve also recognized that Bucky spoke of Nick with open and honest affection, something that Steve saw little of from other men.

“We’re up to Hercules now,” Bucky said, triumphantly. Steve looked up and realized that Bucky had set more than half of the vase. “But we’ll let it dry again.”

Steve nodded his head and ran his hand through his hair, noting the perspiration on his forehead. He wanted to remain outside with Bucky but knew it was getting too hot to do so while wearing his sweatshirt. Bucky felt the heat too, Steve could tell, as he pushed his sleeves further up his arms.

“It’s pretty warm out here,” Bucky said, leaning farther into the shade.

Steve nodded and, without thinking, said, “We c-could go inside.”

Bucky’s eye went round and his jaw dropped, but he righted himself quickly. “I-if you want, or we could go to mine.”

Steve shook his head, “No, I couldn’t intrude –”

“You wouldn’t,” Bucky interrupted. “I could cook lunch.”

That idea had Steve’s whole body in panic. He realized part of his sweating had been the result of low blood sugar, since he hadn’t eaten and it was almost noon. He knew he needed to say ‘no,’ that Bucky might figure out how worthless Steve was, but Bucky’s expression had so much _hope_ , Steve realized he couldn’t.

“O-okay,” he breathed.

Bucky’s entire face lit up as he smiled. “Awesome! Here,” he said, lifting the vase with his right hand and pointing to the tin and the bottle with his left. “Can you grab those?”

Steve nodded and picked them up, then followed Bucky down the steps, across the grass, and to the house he used to know like his own.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey, Nick,” Bucky called as they walked through the door. He hurried to set the vase on the coffee table in the living room, then returned to Steve. “I’m back and _Steve is here too_ ,” he emphasized, hoping that Nick wouldn’t frighten Steve off. He already looked like he might bolt – or faint.

Bucky had no idea what Nick was doing but within five seconds, he was in the hallway. His eye was wide for a moment before his face broke into a huge smile. “Steve,” he said, walking toward them. “Good to see you.”

Bucky could tell that Nick was trying to keep things light, casual, as if they hadn’t been estranged for however many months, and Bucky could have _kissed_ him.

Steve tried to smile, but he looked as if he were about to pass out and not just from anxiety. “I’m going to make BLTs with the leftover bacon,” Bucky announced, then added, “Steve, let’s get some water.”

Steve nodded, looking paler than he had a few minutes before, but he followed Bucky toward the table. Bucky knew that Steve didn’t eat right; he _knew_ Steve was underweight, but he was beginning to suspect something much worse than he had previously considered.

“Sit at the table and I’ll get you a glass,” he said as they entered the dining area.

“O-okay,” Steve said, quietly.

Bucky filled a cup with ice and water from the fridge dispenser and placed it on the table in front of him. Then, he looked in the fridge for something to tide him over, worried he might faint. He pulled out a plastic container with apple slices in it and set them on the table without comment.

He returned to the kitchen and pulled the bacon out of the fridge and reheated it in the microwave. Meanwhile, he toasted six slices of wheat bread, sliced a tomato, and set out cheese, pickles, and lettuce. In between all of this, he tried to check on Steve in as subtle a way as he could.

When he returned to the table, Steve had eaten all of the apple slices and finished his water. He was beginning to look a little better; his coloring wasn’t right yet, but it was improved. Bucky took the glass and refilled it, but when he returned to set it in front of Steve again, Nick was seated at the table too.

“Um,” Bucky began, but Nick interrupted.

“Get the food in here, Buck,” he said, gesturing to the table.

They always served themselves in the kitchen but, for some reason, Nick was suggesting that they make their sandwiches on the table. Bucky smiled at him and nodded, returning to the kitchen to gather the items. He set the bacon and toast out, then grabbed the condiments and cheese, then grabbed three plates and silverware.

“So,” Nick began as he prepared his sandwich, “is that vase what you two are working on?”

Nodding and serving Steve some toast, Bucky said, “Yeah.”

“I remember that one,” he said, chuckling and smearing mayonnaise onto his bread. “Sarah always had flowers in it, even in the middle of winter.”

Steve, who had been silent since entering the house, turned to Nick and said, “Yeah, she did.” He had the hint of a smile on his lips and Bucky wanted to see it bigger, brighter, and that was when he got an _idea_.

By then, he had his own sandwich made and was biting into it. He kept his eyes off of Steve but, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Steve put tomatoes and lettuce on his toast, then add one piece of bacon and cover it with the second piece of bread.

“Bucky,” Nick said, offhand, “tomorrow, we’ll have to go to the grocery store.”

Bucky met Nick’s gaze and smiled, “Yeah, I was thinking that too.”

Nick smirked, then nodded once and turned his attention back to his food. He ate it quickly before clearing his plate away, despite Bucky’s objections, and returned to whatever he had been doing prior to their arrival.

Bucky turned back to Steve and smiled. “How is it?” Steve’s eyes shot to Bucky’s face and he looked as though he were about to run out of the room. “Want some more water?” He asked, trying to distract Steve from whatever thought was causing his sudden panic.

He nodded his head, dropping his gaze to his food, which had maybe three bites out of it, but Bucky wouldn’t mention it. He got refilled their glasses and returned to the table to finish his own lunch. When his was finished, he tried to figure out how he should handle Steve’s – he didn’t want to pressure him, since he had eaten the apple slices as well, but he didn’t want to take the sandwich away in case he would finish it.

But, before he had to say a word, Steve’s jaw set in determination and he picked the sandwich up. He ate the remainder of it and drank his water, then sat back. His expression was… _proud_ and Bucky couldn’t deny that he felt the same way.

Without a word, Bucky began clearing the table, and took their plates and silverware to the sink. He loaded them into the dishwasher, then turned to gather the rest of the items but he nearly walked right into Steve, who had carried everything else.

“Um, where do these go?” He asked, nervously.

Bucky smiled and said, “The lettuce and cheese go into the drawers in the fridge, then the mayo and pickles go in the door.”

Steve nodded his head, then set to work putting it all away; before he turned, though, Bucky caught the smile on his face. He returned to the table and grabbed their glasses to refill them for when they continued fixing the vase.

“I’m going to find something to put down on the table,” he said, walking to the hall closet, where he knew Nick kept old sheets he had laid down when they repainted the guest room.

He found one and whipped it over the dining table; he adjusted it to ensure it would not slide off, then he grabbed the vase from the living room. Steve followed him to locate the other supplies.

They worked for some time, though Bucky lost track of how long. He turned his music app on and surrounded them with the soulful voice of Sia. He kept his eyes on the vase but could see the way that Steve smiled and swayed to the songs. Before he knew it, they had glued Hercules upright. He stood on one foot, leaning forward, yet, the place he stared so longingly toward remained a broken and jagged space.

Yet, Bucky noted, this did not halt his admiration one bit.

The top part of the vase had broken into smaller pieces, so he knew that it would take a while to complete. He also knew that, if he went slowly, Steve might stay for dinner, but when he glanced over, he could see that Steve looked queasy.

The pieces of Steve’s puzzle were falling together and Bucky felt almost _afraid_ of what the picture would show. Loneliness. Loss. Abuse. Starvation. But there was also humor, joy, loyalty, and love.

Knowing the little he did about Steve’s past, Bucky realized he loved him more for it.

Bucky swallowed hard. _Love_.

He looked at Steve then and watched how his long, artist fingers held the pieces of Hylas together. He was trying to be gentle but there was something else, something agitated in his expression. Bucky wondered what Steve was thinking when he looked at the pieces of the vase, so destroyed, yet renewed.

All of the pieces fit together – though not seamlessly. There were spaces where pieces were missing or far too damaged to set together perfectly. The vase would always have marks from its experience but, to Bucky, that made it more beautiful.

He could tell, though, that Steve only saw the imperfections. Unlike Bucky, Steve had seen the vase before it was broken and maybe he would always wish he could have it back as it was.

Or maybe Bucky was wrong. He saw a softness develop in Steve’s expression, surrounded by sorrow. Bucky had never cried for the loss of his previous life – he had cried for his parents, yes, but never for the life he could have had. Realistically, he could have finished school and gone to Purdue in the fall, as he planned, but something about it made him feel empty. His family would have wanted him to go, he knew, but he was no longer the man that boarded that train.

He was someone else… just as Steve would never be his old self again. But that was okay.

Steve used some putty to seal Hylas together and the two sides became one in his hands. Then, he finally placed it in the empty spot by Hercules.

Together again, the lovers appeared happier. Bucky realized that Steve’s painting actually had them spaced further apart. These two men were standing much closer on the vase and, while Bucky realized that may have simply been because Steve’s memory of the image was incorrect, he didn’t quite believe that. He wondered if Steve painted them that way to create a distance, to ensure they were separated. Knowing the fate of their romance, Bucky could understand that. If one was set to be taken from the other, why hurt them both by allowing them such intimacy?

But, to Bucky, that was the _point_. If life was as unpredictable and painful as they both knew it to be, why spend it _alone_?

“You’re staring at me,” Steve said and Bucky was pulled from his thoughts.

“S-sorry,” he stuttered, feeling his face heat up.

“It’s okay,” Steve said. “I was just… wondering why.”

Bucky looked up and met Steve’s gaze; his skin, too, had turned pink from his cheeks to his ears, then along his neck into his sweatshirt. Bucky swallowed, his mind suddenly switching course as he imagined just how far down that blush spread.

“I – I think you’re beautiful,” he blurted out, suddenly, then clamped his mouth shut. Steve’s eyes were wide and he looked at his hands. “I’m sorry, Steve, that was probably inappropriate, I’m –” But Bucky stopped talking when he realized that Steve was… smiling.

“I’m not, but… thank you,” he said.

Bucky wanted to argue – oh, _God_ , did he want to argue. He’d spend _hours_ mapping out every inch of Steve’s body; he’d whisper his admiration and praises as deep into his skin as he could, hoping that his words might soothe those old hurts.

Bucky had plans for how he might make it behind Steve’s walls, but until then, he had a vase to fix. He picked up a larger, top piece that showed they were now repairing the rim, and was about to say as much to Steve but stopped when he heard him speak.

“You are… though. Beautiful, I mean.”

Bucky thought he might have forgotten how to breathe; he thought he might pass out any moment, or maybe he already had.

Steve was looking away; his ears and face were bright red and his hands were shaking. Bucky released a shaky breath, finally, and said, “Thank you.”

Steve didn’t turn back to face him, only nodded his head with a jerk before he continued putting the vase together.

“We’re nearly there,” Bucky said and Steve nodded his agreement.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They worked into the afternoon and, while Steve was nervous about being in Nick’s house, he was much happier that he was with Bucky. Sometimes, as they set pieces on the vase, their hands would touch and Steve felt himself blush. He would look away, instinctively, as his first reaction was to pretend nothing had happened for fear that he be blamed for ‘attracting the attention.’ But he realized that, if he took a long, deep breath, he could quiet that voice enough to look up. He always found Bucky to be just as red as his own felt, and he had _that_ smile plastered on his face.

It made his heart beat hard and fast, knowing that such small touches made Bucky so happy.

It made him want to touch Bucky more. _A lot more_.

Around four, Bucky handed Steve the final piece and said, “You should do the honors.”

Steve’s hand was steady as he secured it in place, then sat back to marvel at it. Sarah Rogers’ vase, the one she had used to help Steve come out of the closet – the one she kept in her front window with flowers in it all year long – was _whole_.

He vividly remembered the night it had been broken; he remembered the resounding crash and the pain. The edge of the table had been sharp against his lower back but he had tried to catch the vase, ignoring the burning on his cheek. As it fell to the floor, Steve dropped to his knees, reaching forward feebly; the sound that had surrounded him was more like bones smashing into pieces than clay.

But, at that moment, it was all a vague memory, overpowered by the reality of having repaired it.

With Bucky.

_“I think you’re beautiful.”_

Steve smiled at the memory and said, “Should we start the sealant now?”

Bucky nodded; his tone sounded almost relieved when he said, “Yeah.” As if he thought Steve would leave. As if Steve could even consider going home yet.

They spent another hour or so putting the sealant over the cracks; all the while, Bucky talked about the process. “She said that this will dry, uh, matte, so it won’t be shiny. Oh, it says on the bottle that it definitely can hold water, so you could put flowers in it if you wanted. I’m so glad that the putty matched the color so well.”

Steve nodded as he spoke, marveling at the fact that his mother’s vase was upright and in one piece. It took him a little while to recognize that his face had begun to ache because he was smiling so much. It was a few moments after that realization that he noticed Bucky hadn’t stopped staring at him, grinning.

Steve wanted… he didn’t know what, but the yearning within him was so intense, it shocked him.

“We did it,” Bucky said.

Steve nodded his head and repeated, “We did it.”

They stayed that way for a few moments, staring at one another with dopey smiles on their faces, until Bucky said, “I’m going to start dinner soon.” Steve’s body went rigid. “You could… you could stay,” he offered, though his smile had faded a bit.

Steve swallowed, then shook his head. “No, I,” he began, then fumbled for an excuse.

He couldn’t use his usual ‘ _I’m not hungry_ ’ because he knew Bucky would see through that. When he thought about how much he had eaten at lunch, he felt his stomach lurch. He’d have to skip dinner – maybe even breakfast, too.

Then, he heard himself saying, “I have chicken out… thawing on the counter.”

Bucky eyed him, a touch of what Steve thought was doubt in his eyes, but he said, “Okay. Maybe another time.” Steve nodded because he wasn’t sure what else to do. Bucky checked the vase and proclaimed, “It’s dry.” They stared at each other for another long moment; Steve did not _want_ to leave, did not _want_ to return to his barren walls, but he had no choice. “Let me walk you home,” Bucky said.

Something in his face and voice made it clear Bucky didn’t want Steve to go either, but they stood up. Steve called out, “Bye, Nick,” without thinking, as if no time had passed.

There was a silent moment before Nick answered. “Come back soon.”

Steve said, “I’d like to,” but it came out a little breathless.

He turned and opened the door, holding it for Bucky to walk through, then let it shut. He was glad they had decided to take the project inside when they did, as the temperature outside was significantly higher and the air felt thick with humidity. They walked across the steadily greening grass, side by side, and Steve imagined reaching out to hold Bucky’s hand. He remembered how warm his skin had felt, how soft, though calloused, it was. He wondered how those callouses would feel against his body, mapping out his soft, sensitive spots until Steve cried out in pleasure.

He gasped, trying to hide his blush as they ascended the stairs of his own porch. He turned and unlocked the three deadbolts, suddenly very aware of Bucky’s presence. He was sure Bucky would see how pathetic Steve was, needing so many locks; how his porch showed clear evidence of the things he had allowed to happen.

But when he turned to take the vase, he saw nothing in Bucky’s expression but… hope.

Steve tried to smile, tried to show Bucky even a fraction of the feelings he was sharing with Steve. It seemed to work and Bucky’s smile brightened.

“I’ll see you soon, Steve,” he said, handing the vase over gently, ensuring that Steve’s hold was secure before he released it.

Steve wasn’t sure they would, even less sure that they _should_ , but he absolutely wanted to see Bucky more often. The school year was nearly over and Steve wasn’t teaching any summer school classes this year, which meant that, in just a few short weeks, he would no longer be Bucky’s teacher.

He swallowed, feeling his face heat up at the thought. “Yes,” he finally replied, “yes, I’d… like to.”

Bucky nodded, still beaming. “Me too.”

Steve stepped over the threshold and, for a moment, considered inviting Bucky in. But the idea of being alone with him brought on a sudden and powerful sense of anxiety.

What if someone was watching? Steve had worked so hard at keeping his eyes down and never allowing people on his porch, let alone inside the house, that the old familiar terror still reared its head at the possibility.

“Hey, Steve,” Bucky said, yanking Steve from his thoughts. “I could… fix your porch light for you,” he said tentatively, tucking his hands in his pockets.

Steve met Bucky’s gaze, noting that there was nothing in Bucky’s face that set Steve on his guard. All he saw was hope and… something else, something Steve wasn’t ready to see yet.

“Uh,” he replied, “you don’t have to do that, Buck.”

Bucky’s smile widened and his nose crinkled, and Steve could not determine why that made his stomach flip, but it did. “I want to,” he said, simply, and Steve was powerless and _in so much trouble_.

“O-okay,” he answered after a moment. “This weekend, so I can buy what you need to fix it?”

Bucky nodded and said, “Awesome. I’ll come over again next Saturday. Same time?”

“Okay,” he agreed, then hurried to get back inside.

He smiled at Bucky, though he felt his lip trembling, and said, “Bye.”

He wondered if Bucky could see the fear he had, the weakness that he was so ashamed of, but if he did, he said nothing. Instead, he smiled and waved before turning to walk off the porch. Steve waited a moment before he shut the door and carried the vase into the living room.

All of the furniture was the same that his mom had, apart from the bedroom. A few months after her death, Steve had moved into the master bedroom, sold off his childhood furniture, then bought a new bedroom set for himself to replace his mom’s four poster.

But in the living room, the table she had always kept the vase on remained staunchly in its place in front of the window. As he set it down, he sighed, remembering the day his mom first told him the story.

He could see her face clearly – her pale skin and bright eyes haloed by her hay-colored hair. He remembered the feel of her hands covering his as she showed him how to pat soil into the vase, all while telling him stories in her melodious voice. The way she smelled was always so wonderful – a faint, floral scent that permeated the house but had long since faded away. He remembered how much she _hated_ DEET and refused to allow him to use it, even though they often gardened together into the evening. _“That’s why we’ve planted basil, lavender, peppermint, and lemon balm,”_ she always said.

Steve felt the early pangs of hunger coming on, though he couldn’t understand why – he still felt bloated after the heavy meal he had eaten. He opened a can of diet coke and savored a few drinks, then downed the last of it, and was no longer hungry.

Next, he stripped out of his sweaty clothes and showered. He scrubbed his skin and hair, trying to keep his mind occupied, but it could only work for so long. Inevitably, his thoughts turned to Bucky and their time together. He sighed, remembering how Bucky had looked at him, how intense his gaze had been, and he felt desire coil in his abdomen.

_“I think you’re beautiful.”_

Steve released a shuddering breath and felt his eyes water. Bucky had been so sincere in his compliment that Steve’s chest _ached_.

Steve couldn’t deny it anymore – he was falling in love.

But what could that even mean? Yes, Bucky was an adult, but soon he would graduate and move on to college. Maybe he’d even go back to Indiana, though Steve couldn’t see Bucky taking off on Nick, especially after learning that he had sold his parents’ home.

That paled in comparison to the possibility that Steve could lose his position if it was discovered that he was involved with a student – adult or not.

But, Steve remembered, the school year was nearly complete; soon, he would no longer be Bucky’s teacher.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Nick!” Bucky called as he entered the house. “Nick!”

“What?” He replied, stepping into the hall.

“How do you fix a porch light?”

Nick blinked, then furrowed his brow. “Ours acting up?”

“No,” Bucky said, hastily, “Steve’s.”

Nick’s face ran through a wide range of expressions – amusement, pride, annoyance, happiness, and exasperation. “Bucky, why are doing this?”

Bucky frowned. “What do you mean?”

Nick cocked an eyebrow and said, “You tryin’ to get some?” Bucky flushed red and spluttered, causing Nick to laugh out loud, throwing his head back.

“No, I – Nick, I _like_ him,” he finally admitted. “I definitely want to make out with him but I can tell he’d be spooked if I so much as held his hand right now.”

Nick’s laughing fit died down and he nodded, “Yeah, I’m not surprised, son.”

Bucky frowned, asking, “That guy… he hurt Steve bad, right?”

After taking a deep, pensive breath, Nick said, “You know that’s –”

“Not your place, I know,” Bucky sighed, pulling his hair out of the bun. “I just… I see the pain and the… I see how he flinches and – those clothes, he’s covering _something_ and I wish I could help. I _want_ to make it _better_ but I don’t know how.”

Nick considered that for a moment. “Maybe this isn’t something you _fix_ , Buck.”

Bucky swallowed, watching Nick with wide eyes. “You’re right,” he sighed.

Nick thought for a moment before he said, “What can you do that shows him he _matters_ , son?”

Bucky was reminded of his idea from earlier that day and he smiled. Nick waited for a moment, but Bucky simply said, “Let me get dinner going.”

“Don’t forget,” Nick said. “We have to go to the store in the morning.”

Bucky nodded with a huge grin and said, “Oh, I won’t forget.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve woke up the next morning and knew something was off. He lay in bed for a few minutes, listening intently for any sounds that could explain what had awoken him. Finally, he began to calm down a bit and went to the bathroom. He went about his usual weekend morning routine – black coffee, hardboiled egg, fruit, cleaning – then, he moved on to grading.

He sat in his office, reviewing the rough drafts of his literature class’ final essays for several hours. Around noon, he drank a diet coke and realized that he needed to put his recycling out. Sighing, he carried the blue container from his kitchen to the foyer. He unlocked the deadbolts and checked through the window before he opened the door and nearly tripped.

“What the –” He almost shouted, looking down at a beautiful, bright red chrysanthemum. It was in a plastic pot with a tag for Dora Milaje, a local greenhouse that specialized in flowers. He knew it well because he had spent a lot of time there with his mom. He knelt down and touched the petals, feeling his lips twitch into a smile. “Bucky,” he whispered before he grabbed the pot and pulled it inside.

His recycling was left forgotten for the rest of the morning, as he poured soil into his mom’s vase and set the flower inside. He broke up the roots to help it grow and covered them with more dirt, then watered it well. For the first time in a long time, Steve heard his mom’s voice in his head.

_“Mums always need to be near a window or outside, but they can’t get too hot. We check the soil daily, remember? Can’t let it get too dry.”_

Steve smiled as he lifted the vase onto the antique wooden table and, without a second thought, pulled his drapes open.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Bucky watched from his porch as Steve opened his front curtains. The smile he found on Steve’s face was so bright, it surprised him. He looked _happy_.

Since they met, Steve had smiled a lot, but it always looked as if he were shocked that his face could still do it. Though it always reached his eyes, it never seemed to be a joyful look, but, seeing Steve by his window with his mother’s vase back in its place, Bucky realized he was seeing what Steve had been.

Maybe… he could be again.

Bucky felt warm all over but not from the sunshine. His feelings for Steve were growing, becoming too large to conceal and he wanted – so _badly_ – to tell Steve. He knew Steve was attracted to him, maybe even had feelings for him, but he also knew that Steve would never allow them to pursue a relationship while Bucky was his student, which made sense.

But there were only a couple of weeks left before the school year ended. Bucky had two summer school classes but Steve did not teach either of them. So, Bucky reasoned, things could change between them then and he needed to be patient.

He would be patient for Steve; he would wait forever to ensure that Steve never felt pressured to do anything he wasn’t ready for.

He already knew that he was falling in love with Steve but how did Steve feel about Bucky?

Maybe, after the semester was over, they could sit down and actually _talk_.

“Buck,” Nick called from inside the house. “We gonna do this, or what?”

Bucky chuckled and followed the voice inside the house, casting one final glance at Steve’s house. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he said, making his voice an exaggerated grumble.

He found Nick at the dining room table with a light fixture set in front of him. “We gotta go over the wiring, punk,” he said.

“Right,” Bucky replied with a grin. “You _were_ saying it runs on some form of electricity.”

Nick sighed in mock exasperation and nodded, “Well, you’re not wrong.”

Bucky laughed, then began, “Pull the cable out through the fixture to check the wiring and replace if necessary. Then, strap the wires and strip about an inch –”

“– Three-fourths an inch,” Nick interrupted.

“Yes, three-fourths an inch,” Bucky repeated. “Then make sure the mounting bolts are in the proper place to hold the fixture.”

“What do you need to do before any of that?”

Bucky hesitated, thinking for a moment before answering, “Turn the power off.”

“Right,” Nick approved.

Bucky continued, “Then, use something to hold the fixture in place while you ground it. That’s white wire to white and black wire to black,” he added before Nick could ask. “Fold the wires into the box, mount it, and caulk it. Then, all that’s left to do is put a bulb in.”

Nick beamed at him, his expression full of pride. “Right. Now show me all of those steps on here,” he said and pointed to the fixture and wires on the table.

“Okay,” Bucky said and cracked his knuckles exaggeratedly, grinning as Nick looked on with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

That week, Bucky wasn’t able to see Steve much outside of History. On Monday, Bucky came to Steve’s classroom at lunch to see him, but, for some reason, Steve was uncomfortable with his presence. His smile was forced and he fidgeted, keeping the lid on his Tupperware as if he didn’t want Bucky to see it. After that, he didn’t try to visit Steve at noon and, instead met with him after school each day.

Everyone was busy studying for finals, so Steve canceled the afternoon art class, which disappointed Bucky – though not because he loved painting.

Since he wouldn’t have the benefit of those extra hours to flirt with Steve, he was forced to improvise. Any spare moment he could, Bucky made a point to stop and greet him; he knew he was smiling like a dope but he couldn’t care less, not when Steve smiled back at him like that. His whole face beamed, showing emotions that Bucky hadn’t dared hope to see.

Bucky was equally surprised to find that Steve was standing much closer to him, leaving barely a foot between them as they spoke. He explained, “My hearing aid’s acting up,” but Bucky didn’t really believe that.

He didn’t question it, though.

In fact, he loved it. Being so near him, Bucky could smell Steve’s shampoo or body wash, or whatever it was, and it smelled _great_. He could see the green in his eyes and it made him even more beautiful, if that was possible. He wanted to touch Steve’s face, feel those cheekbones and those lips; see the way he’d blush when Bucky leaned forward to –

“Buck?” Steve asked and Bucky shook himself.

Bucky had come to Steve’s classroom after school and found him packing papers into his leather briefcase. This was the first time that Bucky had really gotten a good look at it, noting the engraved letters on the clasp.

“Who’s A.E.?” He asked, curiously.

Steve looked down at it and smiled, wistfully. “Abraham Erskine,” he answered. “He was my godfather.”

“So, did he help raise you?” Bucky questioned, trying to remember what a godparent did.

Steve nodded, “Yeah, he took me in for a while when my mom was sick. She was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was twelve.”

“Oh, my God, Steve, I’m so sorry.” This information didn’t correlate with what Nick had told him, but then Steve went on.

“Thank you,” Steve said, smiling up at him. “She was in and out of treatment for two years. The medicine made her really tired and weak, so I lived with Abraham off and on.”

It took Bucky a moment to realize that Steve was freely sharing this with him. He hadn’t hesitated to answer Bucky’s question and then some. His godfather was clearly a person that Steve treasured and Bucky recognized the importance of this moment.

He could have told Bucky the man’s name and left it at that but he didn’t. Since he’d found Steve crying in that bathroom, Bucky wondered if they would ever get to a place where Steve felt safe opening up to him.

But they had.

“He sounds amazing,” Bucky said, simpering with pleasure.

Steve held his gaze for a moment, his own smile wide. “He was. Thank you.”

Bucky felt a lump in his throat, suddenly, and he knew it was time to say something. They had been dancing around it for weeks but he didn’t know how much longer he could keep going like that.

“Steve,” he began, “I –” but was interrupted when Ms. Maximoff walked in.

“Hey, Steve,” she said, halting when she realized he was with someone. “Oh, uh… sorry, I can wait in the car?” She offered.

Steve looked from her to Bucky and the conflict he saw definitely shouldn’t have made Bucky feel so warm, so _pleased_. “We can catch up later,” Bucky said, taking a step toward the door.

He didn’t miss the way Steve moved, then caught himself; he didn’t miss the disappointment on his face either.

But Ms. Maximoff interrupted whatever was happening by saying, “Actually, I have to, um, go see Pietro.” Bucky had no idea who that was but he turned to her and found a look he would classify as mischievous. “So, can you catch a ride with James?”

Glancing at Steve with wide eyes, Bucky caught a look of complete mortification that Steve quickly covered up. “Uh, would that be okay, Buck?” He asked, finding something inside his briefcase to be exceptionally interesting all of a sudden.

He did hesitate, but not because he didn’t want to drive Steve home or be alone with him – just the opposite, actually. But he knew a bit about Steve’s past – he was willing to bet that coercing him into a twenty minute car ride was not something that would make Steve feel happy or comfortable. However, Steve’s expression when he recognized Bucky’s hesitation made it clear that Bucky was totally wrong right then.

So, he grinned and said, “Yeah, you ready?”

The hurt and rejection on Steve’s face melted immediately, leaving a shy smile in its wake. “Yeah, I am.”

Ms. Maximoff waved to them and said, “Have fun.”

Bucky heard something _suggestive_ in her tone and he wondered if Steve had talked about him, or them. He blushed, imagining what Steve had said to make Ms. Maximoff address them in that way.

“Buck?” Steve asked, yanking Bucky from his thoughts.

“Yeah?” He asked.

“You looked like you were a million miles away, there,” he said.

Bucky smiled because Steve couldn’t know just how wrong he was. “Nah, I’m right here,” he replied, feeling more comfortable with Steve standing next to him. “Ready?”

Steve nodded his head and they walked out of the classroom. Bucky tried to match Steve’s pace but, for a smaller guy, he walked fast when he wanted to. Bucky wondered if it was because the people in his life were taller than he was, so he had to rush to keep up. It could also have been that Steve was in a hurry to get home.

When they reached Bucky’s car, he unlocked it and they slipped in. The interior had to be ninety degrees, so he turned the AC on and sighed as the air turned cool.

They were silent as he pulled out of the parking lot and Bucky hoped it wasn’t because Steve thought he was a poor driver. They had driven for about two minutes when Steve spoke.

“How do you like living in California?”

The question was so random, but Bucky wondered if Steve was fishing to ascertain if he intended to move back to Indiana.

“I like it,” he answered. “Way more than I thought I would. In Indiana, the seasons are really distinct – it goes from bitter cold to thunderstorms and tornadoes, to _hot_ weather.” Steve listened as he spoke; Bucky could feel more than see his eyes on him. “And, uh, I’ve already been accepted to a community college here.”

“Really?” Steve asked, surprise evident in his voice.

“Yeah,” Bucky replied, wanting to look at Steve, to see how this revelation had affected him. “I plan on staying with Nick for as long as he needs me, or until he gets sick of me. But, even then, I’ll stay close.”

Steve was quiet for a long moment and Bucky glanced over at him. His chest rose and fell in rapid breaths but Bucky wasn’t sure if something was wrong. He couldn’t see Steve’s expression because he was staring out the window.

He found himself whispering, “I want to… be near you too.”

Steve turned all of his attention to Bucky in that moment. “Wh-what?” He asked, blushing harder than Bucky had seen yet.

Bucky bit his lip, worried that Steve’s tone meant he was uncomfortable or angry that Bucky had said it, but his eyes were full of hope. Bucky knew – he _knew_ that if he backed off at that moment – if he played it off, or changed the subject, this would be lost.

“I said,” he replied, filling his tone with as much tenacity and determination as he could. “I want to be near you.”

Bucky thought his heart might beat out of his chest as he waited for Steve to respond. When he did, though, Bucky’s stomach clenched.

Steve asked, “Why would you even want to?”

When Bucky pulled up to the red light, he hit the brake a bit hard and they jerked forward. “What?” He asked, turning to Steve.

Steve swallowed and asked again, “Why would you even _want_ to be near me?”

“Steve…” he whispered. “I… I can’t stop thinking about you.” Steve looked over at him, doubt evident on his face but there was something else, too – a yearning that Bucky felt as much as he saw. “I think you’re smart and funny; you’re kind and you’re so caring. I like who I am with you and who you make me _want_ to be. Seeing you smile makes my heart pound, but, when I’m the reason you smile, it stops altogether.” Steve’s eyes had a sheen over them as Bucky spoke. “I _enjoy_ spending time with you and talking to you. I like you, Steve. I like you a lot.”

“Buck,” Steve breathed but they were both pulled from their reverie when the driver behind them honked the car horn. Bucky turned his attention forward and began driving again.

He dropped his hand from the wheel, idly, as he imagined how much it would hurt when Steve rejected him. He could tell that Steve was trying to figure out how to do it; he imagined that Steve would wait until they got home so he could avoid Bucky. Would he shut his curtains again? He knew that Steve liked him too, but worried that he would be too afraid to admit it or pursue something.

That was, until he felt Steve take his hand and thread their fingers together. Bucky inhaled, quickly, and glanced over at Steve. He was smiling, shyly, and blushing; Bucky gripped his hand tighter, adjusting so they could both be comfortable while he drove.

“I – I like you too,” Steve finally said. Bucky heard the quiver in his voice, but also the fear and joy and hope that those words embodied for him.

While he had, of course, _hoped_ that Steve would return his feelings, he couldn’t say he had expected it. His heart was pounding and his stomach fluttered in conflicting anxiety and excitement. He didn’t know if he should ask Steve on a date, or if they would have to conceal their feelings until he was done with school. He didn’t even know if this admission meant that Steve _wanted_ to pursue something.

All he knew was that Steve’s hand felt _right_ in his, that their connection was powerful, and that he was in it for as long as Steve would have him – and in whatever way.

As if he had spoken his thoughts aloud, Steve said, “I can’t do this… while you’re my student.”

Though the words he said felt like Steve was putting him off, his hand only held Bucky’s tighter. “I understand,” Bucky replied, smiling at him. “I can wait as long as you need.”

Everything in Steve seemed to relax when Bucky said that and he worried that Steve had believed Bucky would pressure him or expect things Steve couldn’t offer. He smiled as he pulled onto their street, feeling much more hopeful than he had only an hour before.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve’s stomach was in his throat. He had admitted his feelings to Bucky; he had held his hand; he’d told him they could pursue something.

Still, they stayed put in Bucky’s car, parked in front of Nick’s house, and Steve hadn’t felt so good in years. Staring at their hands – still clasped together – Steve imagined how it would be when Bucky was done with his class.

He pictured them in Nick’s garden, planting seeds and flowers, watering and pruning. He’d bet that Bucky would work shirtless, just to get to him, and it’d work. He tried not to think about his own body, seeming so much frailer and weak recently; he tried not to imagine how Bucky would react to seeing it.

He reached up and adjusted the collar of his shirt, suddenly self-conscious of whether or not Bucky might be able to see him.

“Steve,” Bucky said, drawing him out of those dark thoughts. “You’re a million miles away.”

“Sorry,” Steve answered, looking back at their hands. “S-sorry, Buck, I’m just… I’m –”

“Nervous?” Bucky supplied.

“Yes,” Steve nodded, biting his lip.

He intended to disentangle himself – to pull away and get inside to drink a pop before his hunger made him pass out – when Bucky lifted their joined hands and brought the back of Steve’s palm to his lips.

Steve gasped – his first instinct to yank away from the pressure was overpowered by the absolute desperation to be touched, kindly, by someone he cared about.

Bucky’s stubble poked him and he shivered when warm breath blew over his skin. As soon as the touch occurred, however, it ended and their hands returned to the center console. Steve didn’t want to leave; he wanted to stay in that moment forever, safe from the questions and insecurities that waited for him just outside the car.

“God, Steve,” Bucky said, “you’re really pretty when you do that.”

“D-do what?” Steve all but squawked.

“Blush,” he answered and Steve felt his body heat up in a way it hadn’t in some time.

“Oh,” he replied, lamely, and swallowed. “Buck, we should –”

“I know,” Bucky sighed, biting his lip. “I just… can we wait another minute?”

Steve’s heart melted at the hopeful smile on Bucky’s face, and he nodded. “Yes,” he said, relaxing into the seat again.

Neither of them spoke and that was just fine with Steve. There would be plenty of time for talking about… this later. Until then, Steve reveled in the way Bucky watched him, those gorgeous grey eyes fixed on him with affection and patience.

Things Steve hadn’t allowed himself much of in… a long time.

He wondered if Bucky knew about Brock, if Nick had told him, or if Nick had concealed the truth out of respect for Steve. It was clear Bucky knew something but Steve couldn’t be sure how much.

Unless he asked.

Which he couldn’t. Not now, maybe not ever.

He could only hope that the last time Brock showed up would really be the _last_ time _._ But he didn’t feel too optimistic about that; after all, Brock drank a lot and was full of so much bile, he would find a way to continue hurting Steve. Wherever Brock was, Steve knew his continued absence from Steve’s life only increased his anger, made him hurt people, and Steve could never stand for someone to be hurt in his place.

“Steve,” Bucky pulled him back to that moment. “I was… wondering if, this weekend, when I fix your light –”

“You don’t need to do that, Buck,” Steve interrupted.

“ _When_ I fix your light,” Bucky affirmed, “maybe we could… watch a movie or, I don’t know… do something?” Steve worried his lip, concerned about the intimacy of being alone with Bucky. Seeing this, he added, “At my house. Nick likes watching those superhero movies and that new one just came out. We could… watch together,” he suggested, gently. “The three of us.”

Steve had to marvel at Bucky’s thoughtfulness. He found himself nodding and said, “Yeah, that sounds fun.”

They sat in silence for a few more minutes until Bucky’s phone began to vibrate. He groaned, “It’s Nick. Probably wondering why I’m sitting in the car.”

“It is a bit strange,” Steve agreed, smiling. “I should get going.”

Bucky’s smile faltered but he nodded, releasing Steve’s hand and shutting the engine off. He walked Steve to his porch again and smiled, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Steve.”

Steve nodded, “Have a good night, Bucky,” and turned to unlock his deadbolts. This time, his hands weren’t shaking a bit.

The rest of the week went by in a flash – a flash of Steve being far too aware of Bucky at any given moment. During class, in the halls, after school, and – worst of all – when Bucky drove him home. After the first time, Wanda suddenly needed to visit Pietro _daily_ and wasn’t able to take Steve.

Something was wrong, though; Steve was weak and far more fatigued than he usually was. He was forced to sit more during classes and the students definitely noticed. He knew he hadn’t been eating enough, packing smaller lunches and skipping more dinners.

He kept reminding himself, there were only two more weeks of school.

As they drove home that Friday, Steve held Bucky’s hand over the console and Steve wondered if his heart arrhythmia was acting up or if Bucky’s touch simply had that effect on him. For his part, Bucky looked calm but Steve could see the hints of nervous energy: biting his lip, glancing at Steve, fiddling with the radio when they were stopped.

Since they had admitted their feelings, Bucky began inquiring more about Steve’s life – nothing too intense or heavy. They were simple getting-to-know-each-other questions that Steve was entirely comfortable answering. “Were you born here?” Bucky asked as they left the school parking lot.

Steve said, “No, I’m originally from Brooklyn.”

“Oh,” Bucky said, drawing the sound out and smiling. “There a story there?”

Steve chuckled a bit, then nodded, “Kind of.” Bucky waited, patiently, eyes on the road. “Uh, I have a lot of health issues,” Steve began, feeling insecure. “I got pneumonia every year, if not worse, and mom was sure that a drier climate would be the best thing. We sold everything and moved out here.”

Bucky frowned. “How old were you?”

Steve thought for a moment, “Um, ten, I think.”

“Wow,” Bucky said, looking at Steve with furrowed brows. “Was it hard to pick up your whole life?”

“No,” Steve shook his head. “I didn’t have a lot of friends or anything. Being sick all the time doesn’t get you many playmates.”

Bucky was silent for a long moment before he asked, “What did your mom do?”

“She was a nurse at a family planning clinic,” he explained. “She worked through the first year if her chemo,” he added, feeling both pride and sadness. “Then she couldn’t anymore.”

Bucky gripped his hand harder. “I’m so sorry, Steve.”

Steve turned to him, shaking his head. “It’s alright, Buck. Do you… do you want to tell me about your parents?”

Since Bucky had told him about their passing, Steve had been unsure about bringing them up. But, if the look on Bucky’s face was any indicator, he was happy Steve had asked.

“Yeah,” he said, beaming. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Steve smiled back. “Okay. What did your parents do for work?”

Bucky chuckled, “They were _scientists_ , if you believe it. My mom was an astronomer and my dad was a botanist. My mom was all over – she was called in to study asteroids and comets, so we’d spend three weeks in Hawaii at the Keck Observatory or Gemini, then Kitt Peak, or Llano de Chajnantor. My dad was an environmental quality analyst and researched the effects of climate change on plant life.”

As he spoke, Bucky’s eyes were alight with excitement and Steve could imagine how he had bragged about his parents to his friends all his life. Steve leaned back, listening as Bucky recounted stories from his youth.

“We spent eight months in St. Petersburg while mom did research out of Pulkovo Observatory,” he said.

“St. Petersburg, Russia?” Steve asked, surprised.

“Yeah,” he said. “I went to school there for a year in Junior High.”

Steve’s eyebrows rose. “Did you have to speak Russian?”

He nodded, “Yeah, I actually speak it very well still – and Spanish,” he added.

“Wow,” Steve remarked, suddenly more aware of his limited world experience.

“Hey,” Bucky said, bringing Steve’s hand to his lips again – sending his heart racing. “It wasn’t all an exciting adventure. Those are just the pieces I remember the most.” Steve smiled, realizing that Bucky had read him perfectly – was that a good thing? “I mean,” he went on, “I wasn’t in one place for more than a couple of months at a time and we spent _a lot_ more time in boring places, like Wisconsin and Arizona.”

Steve laughed, “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Bucky nodded his head emphatically. “Hey, actually, we spent a week at CUNY-Brooklyn, too. My mom did a series of lectures for their doctoral program.”

Just then, they turned onto their street and Steve felt himself grip Bucky tighter, knowing they would have to say goodbye soon. Feeling Steve’s tension, Bucky murmured, “I’m coming to see you tomorrow.”

Steve nodded his head, smiling, “I know that. I know.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

At dinner, Bucky set his fork down. “Nick, tomorrow, um,” he began, then swallowed. “I’m going to fix Steve’s porch light and then, if you’d be okay with it, I invited him to watch _Wonder Woman_ with us.”

Nick’s face broke out in a huge, sly smile. “Sure, Buck,” he said, then turned back to his dinner.

“It’s just a movie,” Bucky defended but Nick didn’t reply.

After Bucky cleaned up the dishes, he showered and made his way to his room. He lay down for some time, trying to go to sleep. His curtains were open, which meant he saw when Steve’s bedroom – or what he _assumed_ was Steve’s bedroom – light turned on. He was struck by the knowledge of how far they had come recently.

Steve remained adamant that they would not begin anything romantic until the semester was over, which Bucky accepted. Of course, he accepted it. He had realized – _when had he realized it?_ – that he would give Steve anything he wanted, at whatever pace he needed, for as long as Steve would have him.

If that meant that they only held hands _ever_ , Bucky would do so happily. If it meant that Steve threw Bucky down and – well, he would be more than willing to oblige.

It was up to Steve, Bucky knew. That didn’t mean that his mind wouldn’t wander, though, and _wander_ it did.

He wondered – he wondered this _often_ – if Steve would top him, or if he would like Bucky to. He imagined taking his time, feeling Steve’s body open up to him, but waiting ever longer until Steve was a shivering mess.

Or would Steve want to reduce Bucky to that state? Would he want to Bring Bucky to the brink of utter ecstasy and hold him there until sliding inside of him?

He wondered what Steve’s face looked like when he came. Would he be quiet and stoic, or loud and expressive? He imagined that Steve would try to conceal how responsive his body truly was until he absolutely couldn’t anymore. Would he throw his head back and dig his nails into Bucky’s back or chest or thighs?

As his mind continued to wander, he realized he was hard and almost whined. Since touching Steve’s skin, Bucky’s libido was on fire and he was desperate to know if Steve was that soft all over.

He kicked the blankets off before pushing his pants down to his thighs, then he pulled his shirt up. He rolled to his side to reach into his drawer, grabbing a half-empty bottle of lube, and then he returned to his spot. He tried to warm the lube up in his hand before reaching down to stroke his dick, still flinching from the chill of it. But after the initial shock, he had to clamp his mouth shut against a moan that tried to claw its way out of his chest.

Through clenched teeth, Bucky hissed Steve’s name as he began stroking. His light was off, so he didn’t worry that Steve would see him, but there was a small part of him that hoped Steve might. He wanted to show Steve how much he wanted him. He reached down with his other hand and rolled his balls, gasping out small whimpers, before he moved past them toward his ass.

Bucky was no virgin – he’d taken a dick before and would happily do so for Steve if he wanted. But, _fuck_ , he wanted to be inside Steve so badly – he wanted Steve to lose it and cover Bucky in his come, clench around him, and take everything Bucky had.

It was all Steve’s anyway.

He pumped his fist faster, using some excess lube to ease the way to breaching himself and finding that spot.

“Oh, God,” he grit out, rubbing it over and over, feeling himself spiraling. He wanted to glance at Steve’s house, see if he’d catch Bucky, see if he’d _watch_. “Oh, oh, fuck, yes,” he moaned, trying to keep his voice quiet but his brain was so fogged, he hardly cared.

When he came, it was with Steve’s name on his lips.

His sleep that night was the most restful it had been in months – maybe longer. He dreamt about a Mariachi band and woke up craving huevos rancheros, which he happily cooked for him and Nick.

“You’re sure spry this morning,” Nick commented, sipping his coffee as Bucky dished the food up.

“I’m excited,” he said. “I get to see Steve today. In a non-school setting,” he added, placing their plates on the table.

 Nick chuckled as he sat down. “You really gonna fix that light, or just stare longingly at him?”

Bucky’s face heated up and he muttered, “Shut up,” then began stuffing food into his mouth.

He endured a bit more ribbing from Nick but he knew it was all kindly meant. He cleaned up the dishes and, having learned from his last experience, chose shorts and a loose, white V-neck t-shirt. The shirt was more transparent than Bucky had realized when he bought it, but he wanted to let Steve see him.

Checking himself in the mirror, he noted that some of the darker scars were evident through the fabric but he had no desire to hide them from Steve.

He wanted Steve to see everything; every imperfection, every hurt, and every weakness. He wanted to make himself vulnerable and he _hoped_ Steve could do the same.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve’s heart was pounding as he stared at himself in the mirror. He’d used his clippers to trim up his hair, making the sides shorter and leaving some length on the top. His hair had a natural wave to it, so he used gel to mold it into a wispy shape with some pieces falling down.

He’d cut his own hair sometimes through his life but he enjoyed going to salons and collaborating on new and popular styles. But when he’d been with Brock, it became _dangerous_ to spend time with anyone, even to just get his hair done.

As a result, Steve had become adept at doing his own hair to his liking. Since that night, Steve still hadn’t gone to a salon, though; that old anxiety kept him from it.

_“You probably gossip like little bitches in there. You talk about me?”_

_“No, Brock, we didn’t.”_

_“Don’t fucking lie to me.”_

_“Brock, I swe –”_

_“See what happens when you lie?”_

_“Yes, Brock, I’m s-sorry. I w-won’t do that again.”_

He took his glasses off to wipe away his tears with shaking hands, though he couldn’t be sure if it was fear or low blood sugar that made the tremors so bad. The dark circles under his eyes were worse than they’d ever been and he knew something was wrong, something more than before. He hadn’t felt _hungry_ in over a week and had hardly eaten anything, even the bland foods he usually ate. Eating anything made him nauseated and, if he forced it, it felt like a brick in his gut; thus, he had not eaten more than some kale and a hardboiled egg over the past forty-eight hours.

He kept telling himself, _After the semester is over, I will take better care of myself._ But something in that didn’t ring true – something was becoming undeniable.

_I’m not okay. I need help._

After he put his hearing aid back in, Steve stared at himself some more, putting his glasses back on, allowing the slight blur to turn focused. He was thin, thinner than he’d even been in his life. He could no longer see the shape of his mother in his cheeks. A stranger stared back at him.

_“Nothing should stay broken if it can be fixed. Let me try.”_

Bucky. Steve leaned against his bathroom vanity, letting the words flow over him.

_“I think you’re smart and funny; you’re kind and you’re so caring. I like who I am with you and who you make me want to be.”_

_“Seeing you smile makes my heart pound, but, when I’m the reason you smile, it stops altogether.”_

_“I enjoy spending time with you and talking to you.”_

_“I like you, Steve. I like you a lot.”_

He took a deep breath and pulled his white t-shirt on carefully, making sure that he didn’t mess up his hair. As he reached for his sweatshirt, he clenched his jaw and, instead walked to his closet. Inside, his button-ups hung along with suit jackets, slack pants, suspenders, and several older flannel shirts. He hadn’t worn anything so colorful in years; he’d gotten used to covering up – wearing baggier clothes to shield himself.

But he _wanted_ Bucky to see him.

He plucked one off of its hanger, noting the checkered pattern in soft gray, blue, and green before he pulled it on. As his fingers began to button it up, he stopped and forced them to release. Lastly, he pulled on a pair of faded blue jeans and Birkenstocks before he did a final pass to make sure the house was clean.

Not that he planned to invite Bucky in.

No, that would be bad. Very bad.

Especially after he’d seen Bucky the night before… Steve swallowed the groan threatening to claw its way out of his chest. He had just pulled a Diet Coke from the fridge when Bucky knocked; he grabbed a second one and made his way there.

“Hey,” he said, smiling as he opened the door.

“Hey,” Bucky replied and his nose crinkled when he smiled. He looked over Steve’s body unabashedly, and – for the first time – Steve stood taller, letting Bucky see him. “You’ve been holdin’ out on me, Rogers.”

“Yeah, well,” Steve smirked, “thought I should look nice for the local repairman.”

Bucky laughed and shook his head, “I’m not much of a repairman.”

“Oh, really?” Steve teased, “I bet you do this for all the neighbors.”

It was then that Steve realized he was _flirting_ – heavily. It seemed that Bucky figured it out too; his eyebrows shot up and he stepped closer, putting his right arm up against the doorframe. His proximity sent Steve’s heart racing, though not entirely for good reasons.

“Uh,” he began, holding up one of the cans. “Do you want a Diet Coke?”

Bucky’s eyes filled with mirth as he took it. “Yeah, sure,” he said, stepping back. Steve followed him onto the porch and found that Bucky had brought a small ladder and a set of tools. “We should go to Home Depot or wherever to find a new fixture,” Bucky suggested.

Steve nodded, suddenly nervous to be in Bucky’s car again. “Yeah, um, let me lock up.”

“Can I set the tools inside?” Bucky asked before Steve could turn all the way around. “They’re Nick’s and he’d be more than a little angry if they were stolen.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, “of course.”

He set the case just inside the door and stepped away to make room for Steve to close and lock it. “Is it okay if we go to the little hardware store, or would you prefer Home Depot?”

Steve pictured the crowds of people that would be clamoring to Home Depot on a Saturday in spring and nearly shuddered. “The little place is fine,” he answered and, as they started down the porch steps, Bucky took his hand, threading their fingers together. Steve knew he should protest; that the neighbors would know Steve was his teacher; but he couldn’t; didn’t want to.

Again, their hands remained clasped over the center console as Bucky drove them. They were nearing the hardware store and Bucky gripped Steve’s hand a little tighter as they pulled into an angled parking spot, then he released it.

He must have seen Steve’s disappointed look, though, because he said, “We’ll be quick.”

Hardware stores always seemed to be set up without rhyme or reason, to Steve. The tools were at the front, but nails and screws were at the back; lightbulbs were in a different aisle than light fixtures; and gardening items were spread out all over the place. Bucky, however, seemed to know the interior very well and led them to the correct aisle, bypassing the pretty woman who offered him help.

“We’re good,” Bucky said, politely, as they passed.

The selection was far slimmer than it would have been at Home Depot, but Steve was perfectly happy choosing from the options that he had in front of him. There were some that looked very traditional – cylindrical with a bronze finish – but he ignored those in favor of more modern options. He had slowly updated the house from his mother’s vintage taste, but he had not done much in the last couple of years.

He fell in love with a rectangular sconce that used the Edison bulbs, though he knew they did not give off as much light as LED ones. “This one,” he said, grabbing the box off of the shelf.

Bucky smiled, approvingly, and said, “We’ll have to get some of those lightbulbs.”

They found them easily and then made their way to the counter to check out. The blond woman was there and Steve glanced at her name tag: _Sharon_.

“Did you find everything alright?” She asked, smiling at Steve with more than simple cordiality.

It shocked him, really, and he said, “Um, yeah, thanks.”

“Do you know how to install a fixture?”

Steve shook his head and pointed to Bucky. “No, but he does,” he said.

Her expression changed then, from coy to knowing, and she said, “I’m glad. It’s always important to find the right partner for the job.”

Steve should have corrected her; he should have explained that Bucky was just helping him out – but _why_?

“I – I think so too,” he said, glancing at Bucky’s smiling face.

On the drive back, Bucky played music from his phone and Steve grinned when Sia came on. They held hands again while Steve kept the fixture and bulbs in his lap. By the time they were pulling up to their houses, Bucky had been singing along and Steve found that he _enjoyed_ the sound.

They returned to Steve’s porch and grabbed the tools from his foyer. “Can you shut the power off?” He asked and Steve nodded, making his way into the basement.

His mom had labeled the switches so he easily completed his task before returning to Bucky’s side. They hadn’t even opened their sodas, so Steve took them back to the fridge and grabbed two more. When he came back, Bucky had the old fixture off and was dealing with the wiring, so Steve sat on one of the old wicker chairs and watched him work.

He enjoyed it, really; it struck him as incredibly _domestic_. “Thank you for doing this,” he said.

“It’s no problem at all,” Bucky said, smiling _that smile_. “I’m happy to do it.”

He hadn’t noticed until then, but Bucky’s shirt was quite see-through; he could make out chest hair, tan skin, and dark nipples. He took a nervous swallow of his soda and averted his eyes; he kept telling himself that the heat on his skin was from the sunshine.

“Can you unbox the new one?” Bucky asked, snapping Steve from his thoughts.

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” he said, setting his drink down and picking up the fixture.

“It’s okay,” Bucky said, grinning as if he knew exactly _why_ Steve hadn’t been paying attention.

“It’s really cool that you know how to do this,” Steve said once he had handed the pieces to Bucky.

“Oh,” Bucky blushed a deep pink and said, “I like doing things with you.”

Steve knew he had turned bright red too but he forced himself to meet Bucky’s gaze. “I – I do too.”

Bucky worked in silence then, wiring the new fixture and then attaching it to the wall. He caulked it and put a bulb in, then said, “Turn the power on. Let’s see if I did it right.”

Steve walked to the door but paused; he turned to Bucky and offered, “Want to come in?”

Bucky’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open before he shook himself and nodded. “Yes, I’d like that.”

Steve smiled and took Bucky’s hand, leading him inside. Bucky’s wide eyes missed nothing as he looked into the living room and kitchen. “I’ll be right back,” Steve said, leaving Bucky there as he went into the basement again.

When he returned, Bucky stood by the door, waiting. “Ready?”

Steve nodded and hit the light before taking Bucky’s hand again. They stepped onto the porch again, seeing the orange glow from the Edison bulb. “It’s perfect,” Steve said, smiling harder than he had yet. “Thank you, Buck,” he said.

Bucky lifted their hands and pressed a kiss to the back of Steve’s palm. “You’re welcome,” he said, smiling back.

“Well,” Steve said, “um, did you want to watch a movie now?”

Bucky nodded, “Yeah, let me get the tools and everything.”

Steve locked the door, then took the bag of tools while Bucky carried the ladder across the yard to Nick’s garage. Inside, Bucky pointed to a shelf on the wall and Steve hefted the his load onto it.

When they went into the house, Bucky called, “Hey, Nick, we’re here.”

“Alright, Buck – hi, Steve,” Nick said. “Make some popcorn and I’ll get the movie going.”

Bucky led Steve into the kitchen and pulled a popcorn maker from the cupboard. “Hey doesn’t buy microwave popcorn,” he explained. “But I add real butter and it’s so good.”

Steve tried not to think about the calories in butter; forced himself to nod along with Bucky’s excitement. Once the kernels were in the bowl, Bucky got them each a glass of ice water and chugged his own glass quickly.

While the popcorn began popping, Steve’s curiosity came out of nowhere and he asked, “Where did your nickname come from?”

Bucky’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but he answered, “Uh, my sister, actually.”

Steve blinked. “You have a sister?”

Nodding, Bucky said, “Yeah. She lives in New York.”

“Are you close?” Bucky’s eyes went distant and Steve rushed to say, “S-sorry, not my business.”

“No,” Bucky said, smiling and holding up a hand, “that’s not it at all. I just… I’m trying to think of how to explain without making her sound horrible, because she’s not. She’s just… well, when my parents died, she came to see me and, one of the first things she said when I woke up was, ‘I can’t take you in.’”

Steve was struck by the need to reach out and take Bucky’s hand, to comfort him. Instead, he asked, “Why couldn’t she?” His tone did nothing to conceal his feelings on the idea.

Bucky smiled, affectionately. “It isn’t like that,” he explained. “She’s twenty-eight and has her own life.”

Steve’s frown deepened. “That shouldn’t matter, Bucky.”

“No,” Bucky agreed, “but… well, she’s never really been around me. I mean, as I said, she’s almost ten years older than me and, when I was finally old enough to do stuff with her, she was in high school. At the time, it hurt,” he conceded, “but she went to NYU when she was eighteen. I hadn’t seen her at all until the accident.”

Steve watched Bucky’s face as he spoke, noting that there was nothing that suggested his sister’s absence was painful for him. In fact, he seemed like it barely registered. “So, you wouldn’t know how to fit into her life anyway,” Steve hedged.

“Exactly,” Bucky nodded. “She’s her own person, living in New York, working for a law firm. I don’t begrudge her that at all,” he said, sincerely. “But that wasn’t your initial question,” he added, chuckling. “My middle name is Buchanan and Rebecca said that was stupid, so she called me ‘Bucky.’”

“But it never bothered you?” Steve asked, persistently – completely ignoring Bucky’s explanation. “That she said that?”

Watching Bucky’s face closely, Steve saw it – a hint of hesitation – before he answered, “I mean, I wouldn’t say _that_.”

Steve stepped closer to him and threaded their fingers together, offering Bucky the meager strength he had. Bucky’s eyes had a sheen over them and his cheeks were splotchy as he tried to hold back his tears, but he smiled at Steve, at the gesture.

“When I was lying there with pins in my arm, wondering if I’d ever be able to do _anything_ again, trying to remember my life and my parents… hearing that the only person I _knew_ wouldn’t take me – didn’t _want_ me… yeah,” he said, his eyes downcast, “yeah, that hurt.”

Steve wanted to hug him, to hold him tight against his chest, and keep him from anything that could hurt him ever again. His breathing had hastened and he knew he’d made up his mind before actually giving it much thought, but he didn’t care. He threw his arms around Bucky’s neck and pulled him into a tight embrace. He pressed his face against Bucky’s shoulder and Bucky – after a moment of hesitation – wrapped his arms around Steve and buried his face in Steve’s neck.

Steve’s eyes went wide when he felt wetness against his skin – Bucky was crying, though trying to keep it quiet. But Steve only held him closer and whispered, “I’m so glad you came here, Bucky. I’m so happy to have met you.”

They remained like that until the popping of the kernels slowed and Bucky removed one hand from its hold on Steve to turn the machine off. “I’m happy I met you too,” he whispered.

Despite Steve’s best intentions, the feel of Bucky’s breath against his skin set Steve’s heart racing. He must have stiffened, must have somehow alerted Bucky to his thoughts because he released Steve slowly, tentatively. He hated it – not just the loss of contact, though that was becoming more and more difficult to deal with – but the fact that Bucky sometimes treated Steve like a startled deer or fine china. He would soften his voice and keep his touch light, if they touched at all, and Steve didn’t want that.

He wanted Bucky as enthusiastic and tenacious as Steve knew he really was. But he didn’t know how to ask for it; didn’t know if he deserved to have it.

Before he could think any more on it, though, Nick called, “That popcorn done yet?”

“Just about,” Bucky replied, then said in a quieter voice, “We should probably get going.”

However, after he said it, Bucky’s arms embraced Steve tighter and he took a deep, calming breath. To Steve, it was a blessing; the simple affection, the _touch_ , was a balm over the wounds that had finally begun to close.

When Bucky finally did pull away, it didn’t hurt as much as Steve imagined it would. He wondered if it was because he _trusted_ that Bucky wouldn’t withhold the gestures as punishment.

Bucky’s touch was and always would be freely given and, with that knowledge, Steve let his arms drop to his sides, contented.

 

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Diana and Steve Trevor were dancing under snowfall, Bucky felt the gentle pressure of Steve’s head on his shoulder. When the pair went into Diana’s room, Bucky felt Steve’s thumb rub his and, though the action was innocuous and even innocent, it made Bucky’s abdomen clench. He knew he was blushing but he didn’t care. In playful retaliation, Bucky spread his legs a bit, slowly, so as to make it seem natural, and pressed his thigh against Steve’s.

He hoped he would never forget the tiny hitch in Steve’s breath.

Their hands had remained clasped through the film and Bucky hoped that Nick hadn’t noticed, though there wasn’t much of a chance that was true, considering his smug grin.

They had finished the popcorn – even Steve had a few handfuls of it, to Bucky’s unending delight.

After the movie ended, it was only about four, but Steve said, “I should get home so I can get dinner going.”

Bucky was learning to read Steve pretty well, but at that moment, he couldn’t. He didn’t want to push, so he smiled and said, “Okay. Can I walk you?”

Steve nodded and paused by the door to say, “Goodnight, Nick. I’ll see you soon.”

From the living room, Nick called back, “See ya, Steve.”

Bucky and Steve walked across their yards and up the porch steps, holding hands and smiling at each other. When they reached the door, however, their expressions wavered. Steve said, “I had… I had a really good time today.”

Bucky nodded, “Me too.”

Before he could talk himself out of it, Bucky pulled Steve into another hug – though this one was much less emotionally charged than their first. Steve relaxed into it almost immediately, sighing into Bucky’s shoulder and wrapping his arms around his neck. Bucky was concerned at the feel of Steve’s form; his ribs were prominent, as were his shoulder blades, and collar bone.

He wondered – not for the first time – whether Steve actually did intend to eat dinner. If Steve’s thin frame was not _simply_ the result of his small stature; if there was more of a reason why he tried to avoid eating with Bucky and Nick; if his discomfort with Bucky’s appearance during his lunch time was not simply nerves – what could Bucky do?

As he pulled away, he did the only thing he could think of and pressed a small, fleeting kiss to Steve’s cheek and whispered, “You’re so incredible, Steve. I could live a hundred lives and never get tired of seeing your smile.”

Steve gasped and his eyes glossed over; his blush was luminous in the afternoon sun. “Th-thanks, Buck,” he stuttered. “I’m really not, but –”

“You _are_ , Steve,” Bucky interrupted, touching the cheek he’d kissed.

Since they’d admitted their feelings, Bucky had played with kid gloves; he’d made sure that Steve had the reins, but something told him that he needed to take a step and hope that Steve would follow.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The final week of regular classes was a blur to Steve, though not because it went by fast. He knew something was wrong; he was exhausted; felt like he was in a haze; and he couldn’t focus on much. He was so tired, he lectured from behind his desk, which he had never done before.

It was Thursday afternoon and he was struggling. He tried not to look up; tried to ignore the worried expressions on his students’ faces.

He stood up to hand the rough drafts for the final back to them but stopped. He saw black spots everywhere and he could only hear muffled voices, like he had cotton in his ears. He blinked a few times, hoping to clear it but, when he opened his eyes again, he was staring at the ceiling and his head _hurt_.

“Carol’s calling the nurse, Mr. Rogers,” Nat said.

“It’s gonna be okay, teach,” Clint added, though his eyes looked far too worried for him to make such a bold declaration.

“She’s coming,” Carol said, kneeling down at his side. “You’ll be okay.”

“I’m fine,” Steve tried to say but somehow it came out wrong. He was dizzy and didn’t think he’d be awake much longer. He closed his eyes for just a second, but it must have been longer.

“Alright,” a new voice said, entering the room, then Jane knelt next to his head. “What happened?”

“He was disoriented and confused, then he passed out,” Nat explained. “He’s going to be okay, right?”

Steve look at her then and all of the color had drained from her face. In fact, all of his students looked afraid. Jane put her fingers to his neck, feeling his pulse.

“I’ve already called an ambulance,” she said, not answering Nat’s question.

When Steve next opened his eyes, a man was leaning over him. “Ah, you’re awake,” he said, smiling. He name tag read, Erik Killmonger. “You’ve had a whole bag of saline already.”

Steve croaked, “Where am I?”

“We’re on the way to Sharp Coronado Hospital,” he answered, checking Steve’s pupils with his flashlight. “I’m no doctor, but I’m willing to bet your electrolytes and…”

Steve tried to listen but everything went dark again. This time, when he opened his eyes, he was in a hospital room. His throat burned when he swallowed and he had another IV of saline hooked up.

“Hello, Steven,” a cool voice said and Steve look at the door.

“Hi… Dr. Cho,” he answered, wincing at the soreness and dropping his gaze to his lap.

She had been his doctor for years, and she had known his mother. They worked together for a time and, working with Helen was like having one more piece of his mom back.

“Here we are – at last,” she said and he nodded, but didn’t reply. “Your electrolytes and potassium levels were dangerously low. We almost had to put in a G Tube. Do you know what that means?” She asked and, again, Steve nodded but remained silent. “So you know how bad this has gotten.”

“Yes,” he finally said and it was true. He _did_ know.

“Your BMI is fifteen, Steve.”

Her voice had become angry, almost, and Steve’s shoulders folded in on him, trying to shrink away from her, trying to hide.

“God, Steve,” she said, huffing and sitting on a stool by the bed. “In January, you weighed one-twenty-three. You’re down to one-oh-nine.”

“I need help,” he said, but she must not have heard him, as she kept lecturing.

“And you were severely dehydrated, I –” then she stopped. “What did you say?”

He swallowed again, looking up at her. “I said… I need help.”

Dr. Cho looked like she was fighting off tears as she pulled him into a hug. She referred him to a therapist and, later that day, the nutritionist came in to speak with him.

He was discharged that afternoon with a meeting scheduled for an inpatient treatment center in San Diego. He carried a handful of informational pamphlets on eating disorders to the lobby, planning to call Wanda, when he heard his name.

“Steve?” He looked over to find Bucky coming toward him.

He was ashamed and embarrassed, but so happy that Bucky had come. He tried to smile and croaked out, “Hey.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky’s head snapped up every time he heard the elevator doors open. He had tried to get information but, since he wasn’t a family member, they couldn’t tell him anything. He’d been in math class when the ambulance arrived at the school and he and his classmates watched the EMTs head to the Arts building.

He’d stared in horror as they wheeled Steve out on a gurney, clearly unconscious.

At the next break, Bucky rushed to the front office to ask Darcy what happened, but was intercepted by Principal Pierce. “That isn’t really your concern, is it?” He asked in the most condescending voice Bucky hoped he could muster. “Get to class.”

“Uh, yes sir,” Bucky said, then walked out of the administration building to the parking lot and drove home.

Nick stayed with him for the three hours that they’d waited – apart from the twenty minutes it took to find the cafeteria and bring back sandwiches. It was Nick who saw Steve coming out of the elevators, carrying papers and what looked to be the weight of the world.

“Buck,” Nick said, nudging his shoulder. “There he is.”

Bucky’s head snapped up and he stood, walking toward Steve without knowing what he should say or do. When he was close enough, he said, “Steve?”

Steve found him immediately and Bucky’s heart _ached_ at all of the emotions that clouded Steve’s face. Shame, humiliation, uncertainty, distress – but behind all of that, Bucky could clearly see _relief_.

“Hey,” he said and, though his voice was hoarse, he smiled.

Something shifted inside Bucky; a light came on and he knew what he needed to do. He hurried toward Steve and pulled him into a tight hug, dipping his head to press against Steve’s neck. After a moment of hesitation, or surprise, or doubt, Steve wound his own arms around Bucky’s neck.

“Are you alright?” Bucky asked, carefully, and Steve nodded.

“Yes, well – no, I’m not,” he said. “But I will be.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The day after final classes got out, Steve checked himself into Sharp Mesa Vista Hospital in San Diego. He waited for several minutes, wringing his hands or trying to read a magazine, before a thin, blond woman came out. “Hi, Steve,” she greeted. “I’m Pepper. Come with me,” she said, gesturing for him to follow.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he said as he approached her.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” she said, smiling, and walked on.

“What do you do here?” He asked, conversationally, as they wound their way down the hall. As they turned a corner, Steve caught sight of an exterior door that led to a patio garden, and Steve imagined sketching it.

“I’m one of the nutritionists,” she said, pulling Steve from his thoughts, “but I’m the director of the program here.” Steve nodded his head as they entered a bright office, decorated in a very modern style. He took a seat before the desk and Pepper sat behind it. “Can you tell me why you’re here today, Steve?”

He nodded and pushed his glasses up his nose, then spent a few moments going over his eating habits, his weakness, and the incident at the school. Pepper’s eyebrows knit together but she didn’t interrupt him to ask questions.

“Thank you, Steve,” she said. “Our program,” she continued, “starts at thirty days and goes from there. Once complete, we have an intensive outpatient program and an aftercare program. It’s a continuation of treatment,” she explained.

  “As long as it takes,” he said.

Fortunately, Steve’s insurance covered most of the stay.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky sat in the waiting area, bouncing his leg anxiously, and waiting for Steve to return. He wondered if he would come back to say goodbye, or if he’d be taken to the inpatient area right off the bat. He wondered how he would contact Steve, or if he’d be allowed to visit. He worried Steve might not even want him to.

It had shocked Bucky when Steve had asked him for a ride to the treatment center. The Saturday after he’d gone to the hospital, Steve came to see Bucky, and had told him the truth: he was sick and was going to get treatment.

Bucky’d had his suspicions, of course, but it was one thing yo worry and another to hear it said, out loud.

When the door opened and Steve stepped out, Bucky hopped up and rushed over. His expression must have told Steve everything he needed to know because he smiled, cheerfully.

“Let’s go to the garden,” he suggested, taking Bucky’s hand in the most forward gesture Bucky had seen from him. “It’s beautiful out there.”

The blond woman smiled at them as they walked through the door and down the hall Steve had come from. Bucky was afraid Steve was going to reject him; he feared Steve would try to be selfless, and suggest Bucky move on. They followed the corridor for a short time before finding an exterior door, leading to a large courtyard. There was an artificial waterfall feeding a pond, flowers, and trees. They stepped over a stone bridge to a half-circle of wicker chairs and each took a seat under a beautiful blue sky.

Bucky turned to Steve, anxiously, and said, “Can I visit you?”

Steve seemed taken aback by Bucky’s question, but then he smiled and nodded, “Yes. There’s visiting hours every weekend and on Monday nights, plus open phone time in the evenings.”

“Oh, thank God,” Bucky sighed, letting his head drop in relief. “I was so scared I wouldn’t see you for six months.”

Steve laughed and Bucky looked up at him. “It starts at thirty days, then goes from there.”

Raising his eyebrows, Bucky asked, “So you could be home in a month?”

Steve frowned a bit, but said, “Maybe. If I – if all goes well.”

Bucky leaned closer to him, pressing their knees together. “I’ll be here every weekend,” he promised, then hesitated. “If you want me to.”

Steve’s eyes burned with an emotion Bucky hadn’t seen on him. “I – I do… want you to.”

Feeling bolder, Bucky touched Steve’s cheek and added, “I’ll celebrate every step with you.”

Steve’s eyes were wet and Bucky knew his own were full of tears. Steve removed his glasses and wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand. “I’d like that, Buck,” he said, a little breathless.

Bucky kissed the back of Steve’s hand and felt his smile grow. “Then that’s what I’ll do.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The hardest part was learning to eat in front of people. Steve had spent _so long_ hiding every little bite that, when he found that he was expected to eat at a table with other patients, he almost left.

_Almost._

He met with his therapist, nutritionist, and doctor every day, then he attended groups. They were more than just group therapy, too; there was a cooking group, a men’s group, – which Steve was surprised to discover was actually _full_ – a family group, and other more therapeutic groups.

He wasn’t too sure he liked his therapist at first. She was beautiful and blond, but if she had red hair, he would have been certain she was the actress who played _Patsy_ in the children’s TV show. Her name was, in fact, Trish, and she sometimes hinted at a deeper understanding of Steve’s struggle than her education could grant.

His nutritionist was the woman he had met the first day – Pepper. Every time they had an appointment, she seemed to make a point of eating in front of him. He wondered if she did it to help him normalize the behavior, understanding his struggle with the activity.

His doctor was a man with a goatee and graying hair, named Stephen Strange. His tone was often arrogant, bordering on rude, but Steve was able to ignore it. They only met for short check-ins; he would have Steve step on the scale and then he would listen to his heartbeat.

“Our main concerns are always abnormal cardiac function, especially with you, since you already have arrhythmia; gastrointestinal bleeding from vomiting; seizures from low blood sugar; and early onset osteoporosis,” Strange explained without looking at Steve at all. “So I will monitor your heart daily and you’ll have a Dexa-scan to assess for bone health.”

He’d been able to contact Wanda and they cried together over the phone. “ _I’m so proud of you, Steve_ ,” she’d told him.

“Thanks, Wanda,” he said, wiping tears off his cheeks.

Steve’s days were full of activity – some good, some bad. But his favorite part was talking about it with Bucky.

“It’s okay,” he told Bucky over the phone. “It’s hard but… I want to get better.” The _for you_ was left unsaid.

Steve needed help and he knew it, but that didn’t mean he would have sought it. Not before Bucky helped him find the courage to do it.

“How is the flower?” Steve asked, referring to the chrysanthemum that he had asked Bucky to water.

“ _She’s huge and beautiful_ ,” Bucky said, chuckling. “ _I’m going to come see you this weekend. I’ll bring a photo_ ,” Bucky said and Steve could hear the smile in his voice.

“I… I miss you,” Steve breathed into the phone and he could _just see_ that smile on Bucky’s face.

“ _I miss you too_ ,” Bucky replied. “ _I can’t wait to see you_.”

“I can’t either,” Steve said, blushing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Even though he wasn’t technically graduated yet, Bucky was allowed to walk with his class and collect his diploma. He was seated right next to Clint, who was drunk already and had invited Bucky to a party that night. He was grateful but declined the offer.

From the stage, Bucky found Nick’s grinning face in the crowd. He had tears on his cheek and Bucky wondered if Nick was wishing that Winifred and George Barnes were there.

Bucky sure was.

He’d sent his sister an announcement the month before, without expecting any response. However, he’d received a ‘congratulations’ card with a substantial check in it about two weeks later. He and Nick went out for dinner to celebrate but he was distracted.

Steve had only been gone for two weeks and Bucky was going crazy. He kept busy in the garden and with his homework but he thought about Steve all the time. Nick called it his ‘wistful look.’

He talked to Steve on the phone every night during the designated time. He knew that Steve couldn’t use his cell phone and was, instead, using a shared landline, though he wished that they could have more privacy. It was in those moments that his body seemed to sabotage him, reminding him of the way that Steve’s body felt when they hugged; the smell of his shampoo or soap or whatever it was; the light blush he had when they stood close together.

“I’m so glad summer school is just five weeks,” Bucky told Steve during their evening call, keeping the topics mundane but happy – a suggestion that Nick had given him. “I want to spend more time with you.”

Steve chuckled and promised, “ _I’ll be back by then_.”

Bucky smiled, biting his lip. Something in Steve’s chuckle seemed… different – more confident. Whatever it was, Bucky liked it. He rushed to say, “I’m coming to see you this weekend.”

“ _I can’t wait, Buck_ ,” Steve said and Bucky could hear the emotion behind his words.

“Neither can I,” he agreed.

“ _Buck, I gotta go. I have group_ ,” Steve explained.

“Goodnight, Steve,” Bucky said. “I –” he began but clamped his mouth shut, startled at the words that nearly tumbled out. “I’ll see you soon,” he finally said and hung up.

Steve’s promise danced around in Bucky’s head as he pushed his shorts down and took his hard dick out. It wasn’t the first time that he’d touched himself thinking of Steve, and it wouldn’t be the last.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve was in his third week of treatment and his team was very proud of his progress. “They really think I’ll be ready to leave at thirty days,” he told Bucky, feeling the excitement blooming inside of him.

With the nutrition plan they had developed together, Steve had gained five pounds. He shared this information with Bucky, gleefully, and Bucky replied, “ _I’m so proud of you_!”

“Me too,” Steve replied.

Bucky had come every Saturday since Steve’s admission. They were expected to remain on the grounds, of course, but Bucky seemed happy enough to just sit and hold Steve’s hand. They’d done nothing more than that since Bucky’d kissed his cheek.

A growing part of Steve wanted _more_. A part he was steadily feeling beyond comfortable with – in fact, it was a part he wanted to embrace.

His dreams for the previous week had all been about Bucky

“I’ll see you this weekend?” Steve asked, chewing his lip.

“ _I can’t wait_ ,” Bucky replied, sounding genuinely happy. “ _Steve_ ,” he added and Steve heard the hitch in his breath. “ _Would you… would you go out with me? Like, on a date_?”

There was something light in Steve’s chest when he heard that question – he thought the name for it could be ‘hope.’

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Steve,” Bucky said, smiling as they stepped into the garden. “I almost forgot. Nick said to tell you ‘hi.’”

Steve smiled, though a bit sadly, and Bucky knew that whatever had happened had not yet healed. “Tell him ‘hi’ back,” he said.

“I will,” Bucky nodded his head as they reached the wicker chairs. “The flowers are blooming in the yard, it’s so beautiful.”

Steve beamed at him, “I can’t wait to see it.” They sat down and Steve rested his head in his hands.

“What’s the first thing you want to do when you get home?” Bucky found himself asking as he squinted in the sunshine.

He wasn’t looking at Steve at that moment. He’d worn his hair down, but the heat of the mid-day sun was making itself known and he reached up the pull it into a bun, letting his eyes fall shut as he did so. It was an act that he’d done a million times since his hair had grown long enough to do it. When he opened his eyes and looked over at Steve, he found Steve’s gaze was heavy on him. He’d drawn his bottom lip between his teeth and there was a blush high on his cheeks that spread to the tips of his ears and down his neck. Not for the first time, Bucky wondered how far that blush went.

Bucky gulped.

“Oh,” he breathed, hoping that Steve _was_ imagining what Bucky thought he was.

Steve reached his hand up to cup Bucky’s cheek; his eyes were wide but determined. As Steve leaned closer, Bucky saw flecks of green in the blue irises and he wondered if Steve would really kiss him, if he was ready.

He didn’t have to wonder for long as soft lips met his in a light, gentle touch. It was short, but perfect. Bucky had stopped breathing for fear that he might startle Steve, but he should have known better.

Steve was the strongest man he’d ever met.

When Steve leaned back, the blush was darker on his pale skin; his smile, however, was faded and Bucky couldn’t help but worry that his kissing technique was the cause. But then he thought of what he knew about Steve’s history and he understood perfectly.

If Steve was afraid of having a man on his porch and in his home, how incredibly scared must he be of showing physical affection?

Then, Bucky reached up to take Steve’s face in his hand, looking into his eyes to marvel at the _courage_ it had taken for Steve to do any of those things.

How much he trusted Bucky and cared about him, how much he had changed in the months they’d known one another – it was incredible.

“Steve,” he breathed, rubbing his thumb over Steve’s cheek bone. “I’m so happy I met you. I want to make you so happy. I’ll do whatever you ask me to, whatever you need, and I’ll never let anything happen to you.”

Steve’s lips had twitched in a sad smile and his eyes fell to the ground before he said, “I’m not sure I’m worth all that, Buck.”

“No, you are, Steve,” Bucky argued, “you _are_. I love you, I –”

Bucky hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t wanted to push, but the words were out. It only hurt the first time.

“I love you,” he whispered again, this time with more meaning and emotion driving the sentiment.

Steve turned his head up and the look Bucky found there was _heartbreaking_. Steve’s eyes were wide and his face was full of hope, but just beneath that was a deep sadness. At that moment, the old hurts were more evident than ever and Bucky wondered when the last time had been that someone truly _loved_ Steve. He wondered if anyone had ever just wanted him as he was.

“I _love_ you,” he said again, cupping Steve’s face with his other hand and leaning forward.

He kept his eyes on Steve’s and didn’t miss the flicker of fear he saw there; that old terror that he would suffer _later_ for being happy _now_. But it dissipated as quickly as it had come and was replaced by sheer determination – and want. He reached out and dug his fingers in Bucky’s hair, closing the distance between them.

It was a soft kiss, barely a press of the lips at first. Bucky’s heart was pounding and his breath hitched in his lungs; he meant to pull away until Steve’s hand gripped him tighter and Bucky would _never_ deny Steve anything. He knew that full well, knew that Steve could push him away or pull him closer and Bucky would go easily.

The power behind Steve’s kiss was surprising to Bucky, though he didn’t know why it would be. He’d seen so many sides of Steve, so many facets, but he had begun to make out his character. Steve was stubborn and brave; he was loyal and loving; he _knew_ fear and had lived with it, but still _lived_. Bucky was completely and utterly devoted to Steve’s happiness, and he had no idea when it had happened.

He would fight the world for Steve…

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Why haven’t you told Bucky about Brock?” Trish asked him, suddenly, during his third week.

Steve had put off discussing Bucky at all, but he had come up during a conversation about Brock. It had taken a couple of sessions before Steve had finally felt safe enough to tell Trish about Brock, but almost two weeks to even mention Bucky.

“He… he doesn’t need to hear that stuff,” Steve answered and swallowed around a dry throat. “It’d just make him uncomfortable.”

Trish adjusted in her seat and set her clipboard on the floor. Steve recognized the action; he knew it meant she intended to confront him about something.

“What might he say, Steve?” She asked.

Shrugging, Steve said, “I really… I really can’t say.”

She raised one eyebrow. “What would you want him to say?”

Steve sighed; he knew exactly what he would want to hear: “ _It’s okay. I don’t see you differently. I’m so sorry it happened but you’re so amazing, Steve. You got through and here you are. With me.”_

“I don’t know,” he lied.

She knew but didn’t push. “Steve, you know why it would make him uncomfortable?” Steve didn’t respond, so she continued. “It _should_ make him uncomfortable. It should _never_ have happened. It was _not okay_. What happened was wrong,” she said, knitting her brows together. “Why should you suffer alone when it sounds like he _wants_ to be there for you?”

Steve had begun to tremble, inexplicably, and he said, “He’s dealt with enough. He – he lost his parents; he was alone; he’s had enough. He doesn’t need my… my _shit_ too.”

She frowned at that and asked, “How is his loss different than yours? Wait, maybe I should say it this way,” she interrupted. “You lost your family and were alone. The person you trusted to care for you and love you, he broke that trust in a horrible way. Bucky’s loss is not _worse_ than yours. It gives you common ground,” she emphasized. “It should make him better able to support you in your recovery, when you need it more. Then, when he has hard days, you can be there for him. I don’t believe he expects more from you than you’re capable of giving, Steve. You describe him as patient and kind, _giving_ , and he’s never pushed your boundaries beyond what you felt safe with. Right?”

Steve’s jaw had gone slack at some point so, when he answered, it snapped shut. “Y-yes.”

“Why would that change if you were to share more of yourself with him?”

“B-because,” Steve said in a weak voice. “He might th-think less of m-me.”

“Ah,” she said, nodding her head. “There it is. The _shame_.” She leaned back in her chair.

“He’s _amazing_ , Trish,” Steve said, defensively. “He has money and could be at an Ivy League school, but he chose to care for his Uncle! He’s smart and funny. Why would he want someone like _me_?”

Trish sat back up. “That is _not_ you, Steve. That isn’t your voice. That’s _Brock_. You think you’re unlovable when someone already _loves_ you.” Steve swallowed. “You have someone who _loves_ you as you _are_. We’ve talked about challenging those intrusive thoughts, right? This is one of those times. Hold that thought, Steve,” she said, clenching her own fists tightly in a gesture she had shown him. “Hold onto it and then challenge it. Brock told you that you’re not good enough. What can you do to challenge that?”

Steve hadn’t realized he had closed his own fists until then. “It’s… it’s a lie.”

“How so?” She led.

“I… I’m smart. I got my teaching license fast and I work at a great school.” She smiled, holding up her hand for him to continue. “I’m a good – no, _great_ artist. My work has hung in galleries all over California.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” she grinned.

Steve took a deep breath and whispered, “I was n-never fat.”

Trish’s eyes rounded. “No, Steve,” she said, smiling. “You weren’t.”

“He said those things to c-control me,” Steve said, though his voice quivered.

“You never deserved that,” she said and he nodded.

“No,” he said, his tone far firmer than before, “I didn’t.”

She nodded her head and asked, again, “If you told Bucky about Brock, what would you want him to say?”

Steve swallowed and his jaw set. “H-he’d say he… still loves me; that it doesn’t change anything. He’d say I’m worth loving.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky sat in the lobby, his knee bouncing from anxiety. It was the same as it had been thirty-one days before, when he’d driven Steve to the treatment center. This time, however, he would be taking him _home_.

Well, with a few stops first.

“Buck,” Steve’s voice called and Bucky jumped up. Steve was in the doorway with his duffel bag and the blond woman behind him, smiling.

Steve ran toward him and Bucky caught him in a hug. Even in a month of treatment, Bucky could _feel_ differences. Good ones. Steve was still bony, but his features had softened a bit. His shoulders and elbows weren’t sharp angles; his cheeks had filled out; the circles beneath his eyes had faded. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a faded blue shirt with a red star in the middle, looking more beautiful than Bucky had ever seen him.

“You look unbelievable,” Bucky murmured and he felt Steve chuckle.

“I don’t know about that,” he joked, pulling away. “But thank you.”

Bucky reached down and picked Steve’s bag up with his right hand, hoisting it over his shoulder. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” Steve nodded, taking Bucky’s left hand. “I already paid a small fortune and signed away my firstborn, so…”

Bucky laughed as they walked through the glass doors. “I was wondering,” he began, leading Steve toward his Subaru. “Would you like to go somewhere with me?”

Steve’s eyes widened for a moment and he said, “Sure. What, uh, what did you have in mind?”

Bucky flashed a huge smile – the one that always seemed to make Steve blush – and said, “Since we’re in San Diego anyway, I thought we could hit up the Botanical Gardens.”

Steve’s face went through several emotions – excitement, anxiety, joy, and apprehension. Bucky knew Steve didn’t like crowds and, after having been locked inside a facility for a few weeks, he may not be comfortable with such a venture. But Bucky was determined.

“It’s a Thursday,” he said, touching Steve’s cheek gently, “it won’t be very busy. If you get overwhelmed, we’ll leave. Okay?”

Steve hesitated for a moment longer before he said, “Okay.” He gripped Bucky’s hand tighter until they reached the car.

They drove through the streets of San Diego for around twenty minutes before Bucky pulled into the parking area. He turned to Steve and saw the apprehension in his face but, for some reason, he didn’t think it only had to do with the location.

“Do you want to leave?” Bucky asked.

Steve shook his head, swallowing, and gripping Bucky’s hand tighter. “No,” he said, smiling, though he still looked as if he might shake out of his skin. “Let’s go.”

Bucky smiled, getting out the car and running around to the passenger door. Steve had already begun to open it, but Bucky tugged it from his grip.

“What are you doing?” He laughed, taking Bucky’s outstretched hand.

Bucky’s smile grew and he said, “It’s a date. I wanted to… I want to do this right.” He didn’t think he’d ever seen Steve blush quite so much but he found that he loved it. “Let’s get a map, okay?”

“You haven’t been here?” Steve asked.

“Nope,” Bucky replied. “You?”

Steve nodded, “Yeah, when I was in middle school, we had a field trip here.”

“Well, then,” Bucky chuckled. “You’ll be the guide.”

Steve nodded his head, smiling, Bucky almost couldn’t see the anxiety in his face. After Bucky paid their admission fee, Steve grabbed a map and led them around. He commented on the number of trails and how much larger it was than in his memory, but he had a wistful sort of look and Bucky wondered if he was trying to memorize the flowers and trees to paint later.

“I want to show you the waterfall,” he exclaimed, leading Bucky along the path. “Then let’s sit for a while.”

Bucky nodded and followed Steve’s lead, happily. He had been right, fortunately, that it wouldn’t be a very busy day and his heart swelled each time he saw how big Steve’s smile was.

The waterfall was beautiful, surrounded by greenery, though Bucky had seen bigger ones back in Indiana. He would have been just as content if they stood near a tar pit, so long as he got to hold Steve’s hand.

“Come on,” Steve said, pulling Bucky gently. “Let’s go sit down in the gazebo.”

“Okay,” Bucky nodded.

That area was a bit more populous than the others had been, however, Steve appeared much more at ease. They sat on a bench and Steve turned his body toward Bucky, bringing one bent knee up onto the seat.

His expression was determined and Bucky could practically hear the _Come on, Rogers_ , before he said, “I want to tell you some things.” Bucky nodded but didn’t reply, so Steve went on. “I think you know… some of it, but I’m not sure.”

Steve paused for a long moment and Bucky watched a cloud pass over his face. “Steve,” Bucky said, catching Steve’s attention. “You can tell me anything. It won’t change the way I see you. Nothing could.”

Steve searched Bucky’s face, considering what he’d said. “I…” Steve began, releasing a shaky breath and looking at their clasped hands. “I was… with someone once. I couldn’t talk to anyone about him. I tried once and… he used to hit me.”

Bucky couldn’t stop the air that rushed from his lungs at the vacant way that Steve said it. Discussing it was affecting him, Bucky could tell, as Steve’s eyes were flooded with tears. He gripped Steve’s hand tighter and leaned closer, ensuring their conversation remained private but also lending as much support to Steve as he could.

“At first, I swore that I’d leave him if he did it again but…” Steve said, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “He kept me away from my friends, wouldn’t let me go out.” As he spoke, his hands shook heavily but Bucky was almost sure it was _anger_ , not fear, that caused it. “He hit me after I got my hair cut or if I talked to a cashier too much, if I came home late. He kept promising it would stop but… it just got worse. He always told me how fat I was and how I ate too much, how no one would love someone like me. How I could never do any better than him.”

Steve hadn’t looked at Bucky’s face since he started speaking. His eyes were far away, but sharp and intent, as if all of these horrible things were happening right then.

“Sometimes… sometimes he cried because of the marks and bruises he left. When I peed blood for a week, he took me to the hospital and apologized over and over. He would tell me he… he _hated_ what he’d done but then he always told me it was my fault. If only I’d been more careful; if I hadn’t flirted with those guys or I’d been on time, it wouldn’t have happened. He said that I was stupid and, if I weren’t that way, he wouldn’t hit me anymore.”

Steve swiped at his nose and eyes again. Though he was speaking at a low volume, each word was shouted into Bucky’s subconscious, fueling a deep anger toward a man who would hurt and manipulate, degrade and humiliate the person he claimed to love. But that rage was overshadowed by a great, overwhelming _awe_ at what Steve had survived.

“It just got worse and worse until, one night…” Steve choked back a sob, covering his mouth to conceal the sounds. “I think he was going to kill me. He threw me into the mirror.” Bucky swallowed, understanding a tiny part of what Nick had tried to tell him. “He pushed me into the table with mom’s vase and it fell off. It was loud enough that Nick heard it and called the police. When they came… they took me to the hospital and arrested Brock, but I never filed charges.”

Bucky wanted to ask why, but he knew enough about Steve to understand the reasoning. Instead, he waited for Steve to continue.

“Since then, he’s… come around only a few times but… I’m so afraid he’ll show up drunk with a gun. He always told me he was Special Forces and knew how to kill me quietly. He always said no one would know.”

Steve stopped talking and began taking deep, calming breaths. After a moment, Bucky asked, “May I hug you?”

Steve didn’t seem to have heard him right away and his expression was still distant. After a few moments, though, he lifted his head and nodded. Bucky meant to go slowly and choreograph his movements for Steve, but that didn’t happen. Instead, he threw his arms around Steve’s shoulders and pressed their chests together.

“You’re amazing,” he breathed against Steve’s ear. “I’m so glad you felt comfortable enough to tell me. Thank you.”

After a few moments, Steve pulled away, glancing at a few onlookers who had been watching them. He pulled a napkin from his pocket and wiped his face with it, as his tears faded.

“Thank you for… listening,” Steve whispered, appearing more _relaxed_ , as if a weight had been lifted. “I didn’t know how you’d… I was worried.”

Bucky understood Steve’s concern but part of him still ached for how alone Steve must have felt. He touched Steve’s cheek, gently bringing his eyes up to meet Bucky’s.

“Nothing’s changed for me,” he said, watching Steve’s face intently. “I still want this.”

The moment the words were out, the anxiety drained from Steve’s body. He sighed and leaned forward, resting his forehead against Bucky’s chest in an oddly sweet gesture. Bucky kissed Steve’s hair and ran his fingers over the shaved side. They remained that way for a few minutes, easily ignoring any looks they were getting.

“Do you want to look around some more?” Bucky asked. “We could get a couple water bottles.”

Steve nodded his head, still pressed against Bucky. “Yeah, I want to show you the sundial.”

They held hands as they walked along the paths through the different garden areas. Something in Steve’s air was different; something had replaced his nervous energy and Bucky couldn’t quite put his finger on it. They sat on a bench together, watching families and other couples walking around, and Bucky felt content in a way he hadn’t thought he could.

Being with Steve felt _right_.

He turned to tell Steve as much but found Steve’s eyes intent on him. There was the old hurt bubbling up as Steve thought hard about something.

“Steve?” He asked.

The anxiety that had come on began to fade before Bucky’s eyes. Something else bloomed in its wake, though – a fire that made Bucky gulp.

After a moment, Steve said, “I wanna – I wanna go home.”

Bucky’s eyes were wide but he nodded, “Okay.” Then they stood up to walk back the way they’d come.

The drive seemed to take more time than usual, though it may have been Bucky’s perception. When he finally turned onto their street, a nervous feeling overtook him and he wondered what Steve intended to do.

Bucky knew what _he_ wanted to do but had no intention of pressuring Steve. He tried to recall the phrase he’d seen on a poster at his old school… “ _Enthusiastic Consent_.” Especially after learning about Steve’s experiences, Bucky wanted him to take the reins and lead.

When they pulled up to Nick’s house, Steve remained in his spot. Bucky wondered if he was having second thoughts, if he had decided he would prefer to rest and unpack.

However, Steve turned to him with an almost _coy_ smile and said, “Netflix and chill?”

Bucky couldn’t help it – he laughed out loud and Steve followed suit. “That sounds great,” Bucky answered after his fit died down.

Steve paused before asking, “Can you give me a few minutes? I’d like to shower and change.”

Bucky nodded his head and said, “Should I come over in thirty?”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, then added, “And bring a movie. I don’t actually have Netflix.”

They laughed again and Bucky’s nerves eased with the return of the comfortable banter they had established. He walked Steve to his door and promised to return in half an hour, then ran back to Nick’s to shower and change.

It was still hot outside, so Bucky left his hair up and chose a pair of shorts and his thin white V-neck shirt to wear. He remembered the way that Steve had watched him in it and blushed, knowing what could happen.

He grabbed a few condoms and weighed the merits of bringing a bottle of lube, knowing it could bust open and make a mess. He finally decided not to risk it and checked the clock.

“Nick,” he called as he grabbed _Batman v. Superman_ from the shelf in the living room. “I’m going to Steve’s for a while.”

Nick didn’t answer right away, but when he did, there was more than a little mirth in his tone. “Have a good time, son,” he said and Bucky clamped his lips shut on any response.

He slipped his sandals on and had just stepped out onto the front porch when he saw him.

A tall man with black hair walking toward Steve’s house.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Steve’s hair was still wet but he was too excited to bother with drying or styling it. He pulled on his light blue NASA t-shirt, hoping that Bucky’s mom would have approved. The jeans he pulled on were a little tighter than they had been when he’d worn them before and he fought down that initial impulse to withhold food.

Clenching his fists, Steve took a series of deep breaths. “I’m not fat,” he said out loud in a firm voice. “I never was.”

The knock at the door pulled Steve from his thoughts. He smiled, noting that Bucky was a little early, and made his way down the stairs.

“Hey,” he said, opening the door only to feel all the blood rush from his face.

Those dark eyes roamed over Steve’s body in lewd and predatory way that sent a shudder through him. “I always loved you in that blue, sweetheart,” Brock said in his gravelly voice.

His eyes were bloodshot and he was sweating. Steve knew that look - Brock was coming off of a binder.

“Brock,” Steve breathed and his fist clenched on the doorknob, but for some reason he wasn’t shutting the door.

In fact, he wasn’t doing anything. Steve had frozen to that spot, staring at what he’d spent so many months hiding from. For a horrible few moments, he felt those same instincts return, the ones that had kept him docile, allowed him to blame himself for the bruises and broken bones. For those few seconds, Steve’s entire world turned gray.

Brock’s eyes moved to his legs, scrutinizing, before he said, “Pants a little tight these days, huh?”

For some reason, _that_ snapped Steve out of the stupor he’d sunk into, and a rage he had long ago extinguished began to burn, bright and hot within him. “My pants are fine,” he said. “You need to leave,” he ordered, even though his voice shook.

Brock was clearly thrown off by such a dramatic shift in Steve’s demeanor. “I came by a couple times but you weren’t home,” He said, trying to crawl his way back under Steve’s skin. “I heard that you went to rehab.”

“Where I go and what I do,” Steve growled, “is none of your fucking business.”

Brock’s black eyes widened for a moment before he snarled, “Who the fuck do you think you are, talking to me that way? After all I put up with?”

“You don’t ‘put up with’ anything from me, _anymore_ ,” Steve argued. “Now, _leave_.”

“Or what?” Brock asked in a mild unconcerned tone, even going so far as to step closer to the doorway.

“Or –” Steve began but was cut off.

“Or I’ll call the cops _again_ ,” a voice called from behind Brock.

Steve’s eyes found Nick and Bucky, standing on the lawn, but he turned back to Brock right away, knowing how quickly he could attack. Those eyes, however, were not on Steve anymore. At first, he thought that Brock was looking at Nick but he realized that wasn’t the case. They were trained on Bucky with an intensity that Steve recognized. Brock was glowering at Bucky with a disgustingly jealous air. He had looked at other men that way, then he’d taken Steve home and beaten him.

At that moment, Steve became aware of a horrible truth.

Brock _knew_ about his relationship Bucky.

“Leave,” Steve said, hating how his voice shook, but he knew he wasn’t afraid only for himself anymore. If Brock was aware of Bucky, that meant he _had_ been watching, but for how long?

“Don’t come back again,” Bucky growled.

When Brock turned back to Steve, the look on his face made Steve flinch. He forced himself to stand straight though, refusing to show his belly _ever again_.

Shaking his head, Brock leaned forward and whispered, “ _No one_ can have what’s mine,” before he turned and walked away.

As Brock was sliding into the driver’s side door of his car, Bucky had climbed Steve’s porch steps. Nick stayed just long enough to make sure that Brock drove away, then he returned to his house.

Standing before Steve, Bucky lifted his hands, then hesitated and let them drop back down. Steve blinked, confused, before he realized what was happening. Bucky was worried that all of the progress they’d made had been undone; worried that Steve would flinch or pull away from his touch.

Steve’s brain was slowly processing through what had just happened but, while its wheels were turning, Bucky was moving to leave. “I’ll come check on you later,” he was saying. “I understand if you want to be alone.”

At the word _alone_ , the air rushed out of Steve’s lungs and he rushed forward, grabbing Bucky’s wrist. “Don’t,” he said, eyes intent on Bucky’s. “Please… stay.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed and he looked as if he might still pull away, but he finally nodded, letting Steve lead him inside.

Steve was determined. He had made up his mind days earlier; he’d psyched himself up and planned for this. Once the door was shut – and _locked_ – he pounced, pulling Bucky into the hot, wet kiss Steve had wanted for months.

Bucky was pulling away and Steve _did not want that_. He knew what Bucky was going to say and he didn’t want to hear it. He chased Bucky’s mouth, pulling at his shoulders and neck, but Bucky was adamant that they separate.

“Whoa, hey, hey,” Bucky said, a little breathless, which made Steve happy. “Slow down, okay? You don’t have to do anything –”

“I _want_ you,” Steve interrupted, blushing at the words. “I’ve been wanting you for… for a long time, Buck,” he confessed, though he thought it had been obvious.

However, Bucky’s eyes rounded at the statement.  ”Steve,” he breathed, but said no more; instead, he stopped resisting Steve’s pull and their lips met again.

This kiss was hungry, fervent, and Steve found that he loved the feel of Bucky’s big hands on his hips, around his shoulders, and in his hair. When they separated for air, Bucky began trailing kisses down Steve’s neck and the slight scrape of his stubble provided a new and exciting sensation. The moan Steve let out was an accident, but because of it, he learned what Bucky’s smug grin felt like against his pulse.

He also learned that he _liked_ it. But, he liked the way all of Bucky felt against him and he couldn’t wait for more.

He _really_ couldn’t.

“Come on,” Steve said, breathily, as he pulled Bucky toward the stairs.

“Steve –” Bucky began, but stopped. “We – we don’t have…”

“Have you done this before?” Steve asked, breathing heavily.

“Yes,” Bucky answered, “but this… this is different.”

Steve smiled, knowing exactly what Bucky meant. “Show me, then” he murmured, blushing hard at the request.

Bucky swallowed, then nodded his head and said, “Your move.”

Steve pulled him up the stairs and into his bedroom, feeling grateful that he had washed his sheets and remade the bed before he went to the treatment center. Their kisses quickly turned heated again and _finally_ , Bucky’s warm hands began wandering over Steve’s body. For his part, Steve kept his grip on Bucky’s hair, messing up the bun irreparably until Bucky chuckled and yanked the tie out, causing the locks to fall about his face and shoulders.

“Better?” He asked.

“Much,” Steve groaned in agreement, running his fingers through the strands. He hadn’t known how much he loved Bucky’s hair until the day they fixed the vase.

Bucky reached down and lifted Steve up by the thighs before dropping them both onto the bed. The act was not seamless and Bucky landed rather heavily on Steve’s chest, but they laughed it off together.

“Sorry,” Bucky murmured against Steve’s lips.

“You’re fine,” Steve soothed, shaking his head, before pulling Bucky back into a deep kiss.

Bucky was hard, pressed against the back of Steve’s thigh, and something about the knowledge that it was for Steve, caused by Steve, made him moan into Bucky’s mouth. Bucky tucked his hair behind his ear, thankfully getting it out of Steve’s face, and turned his head to deepen the kiss. Steve wrapped his leg around Bucky’s hip and used his other foot to roll them so he was on top, Bucky released a groan like the air had been punched from his lungs.

Steve steeled himself and sat back, ensuring that Bucky’s eyes were on him as he pulled his t-shirt over his head and tossed it away. His glasses were left a little askew, so he took them off and put them on his bedside table. Bucky wouldn’t go far enough away to require them but he kept his hearing aid in.

Steve knew he was still underweight and bony; he knew that the scars from the surgeries that saved his life, brought him to that moment, were on full display. But Bucky’s mouth dropped open at the sight; his pupils were so dilated, Steve couldn’t see the grey anymore.

Bucky’s hands gripped Steve’s thighs hard as if he were keeping himself grounded to those two points. His eyes, however, couldn’t stick to one place for longer than a second, and he was biting his lip so hard, Steve worried he might bleed.

He moved to lean forward to kiss him but Bucky grinned and used that moment to roll them again. He pulled his own shirt off, though Steve could clearly see everything through its thin material. He allowed his own eyes to wander, followed by his hands. For the first time, he felt the raised skin of Bucky’s scars around his shoulder and down his arm. As his fingers brushed them, Bucky took a sharp breath, then leaned into Steve’s hand, desperate for contact.

Bucky began kissing Steve’s collar bone, sending shivers through Steve’s entire body. His lips ventured down, sucking marks and nipping, until he reached Steve’s nipple. His tongue teased him until Steve could do nothing but arch his back into it.

“Oh, please,” he gasped, trying to spur Bucky on, but he wouldn’t relent. “C-come on,” he urged but Bucky only pulled further away.

Meeting Steve’s eyes he breathed against Steve’s tender skin, “A man like you should be cherished. _Loved_.”

“Oh my God,” Steve moaned.

“Let me love you, Steve,” he murmured, slipping back up Steve’s body, letting their skin slide together. “I wanna take my time,” he added, pleading.

Steve could only nod his head fervently, shivering under the intense gaze Bucky was giving him. Taking the gesture as assent, Bucky returned to teasing Steve relentlessly, sucking, biting, and pinching his nipples.

Steve dug his hands in Bucky’s hair, tugging accidentally, but Bucky seemed to enjoy it, if the shuddering groan he released was any indication.

Steve felt Bucky’s hands move to his zipper, tugging to get his pants off and he stiffened. Bucky’s hands moved away immediately and he lay down on his elbows, meeting Steve’s lips in a chaste kiss.

“Do you want to stop?” He asked, running his fingers through Steve’s hair.

Shaking his head, Steve said, “No, I just… wh-what are you… what is your… how do… _fuck_.” He covered his eyes with his arm, embarrassed at how tongue tied he’d become.

“Any way,” Bucky answered honestly and Steve lifted his arm a bit, searching his face. “If you want me to top, okay,” he said. “If you want to top me, okay. You don’t want to do that at all, okay. We can go watch the movie and cuddle if you want.”

Steve swallowed, touched by the earnestness in Bucky’s face and voice. “You’d do that? After… all this?” He asked, gesturing to their naked chests.

Smiling, Bucky said, “Yeah. I just want to spend time with you.”

Steve gulped, tangling his fingers in Bucky’s hair again. “I don’t want to do _that_. The movie,” he said. “I might not be able to… do _everything_ yet.”

Bucky nodded, “I want to make you feel good. Any way I can.”

“M-me too. For you,” Steve said, pulling Bucky into a kiss.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve’s skin was warm and soft against Bucky’s lips and hands. He made his way down Steve’s abdomen, slowly; he paused to check in, receiving a wordless nod or a moaned “ _Don’t stop_.” When his fingers reached for the button on Steve’s pants again, Steve wordlessly lifted his hips for Bucky.

Seeing Steve, naked, laid out for him was the most beautiful thing Bucky had ever seen. His chest had a dusting of pale blond hair that felt nothing like the coarse hair on Bucky’s body. Between the jut of his hip bones, Steve’s belly was soft and smooth with more hair that led down to his dick.

His _hard_ dick.

God, Bucky had to taste it.

When Bucky dipped his head to lick the tip with his tongue, Steve practically jackknifed off of the bed, moaning. Bucky repeated the action, unable to keep his eyes off of Steve’s expressive face as he did so. After almost a minute of teasing, Bucky finally took the head into his mouth and sucked gently.

Steve clenched his fists in the blanket until his knuckles turned white. His thighs, which he’d drawn up around Bucky’s shoulders, shook, and it was the sexiest thing Bucky had ever felt. To know that he’d done this, that he was causing _so much pleasure_ , had him way too close to busting a nut. He pulled off of Steve’s dick, but took it in his hand to ease the desperate whine that crawled out of Steve’s mouth. He forced himself to take lungfuls of air, calming down and bringing himself back from that edge.

When the heat dissipated, he launched forward and took Steve in his mouth again, keeping one hand on the base. Steve cried out, arching his back and releasing the blanket only to bury his fingers in Bucky’s hair.

“Oh God, Bucky, I – I’m close,” he hissed, pulling Bucky’s hair, but the tugging only made Bucky moan and, the next second, Steve crashed over the edge.

He wasn’t being careful anymore; he was too far gone to be gentle. He pushed his hips up and came down Bucky’s throat and Bucky’d been so wrong – _that_ was the sexiest thing he’d ever felt.

The usually shy and nervous Steve, letting go and giving in to his pleasure was almost more than Bucky could handle. However, his dick must have been like Job and taken the torment without giving in.

When Steve began to squirm, Bucky let his dick slip from his mouth, leaving Steve a total wreck on the bed. Parts of his hair were sticking up, whereas others were plastered to his face with sweat. His chest rose and fell as he panted his way back to consciousness.

Bucky couldn’t help the smugness in his face – really, he couldn’t. Not after seeing Steve so relaxed. He pressed moist kisses to Steve’s body, from one hip across to the other, then moved upward; he licked around his naval, teasingly, and Steve shivered. When Bucky looked up, he found Steve’s eyes on him, burning with lust. He continued kissing along his ribs to his chest, along his collar bones, before he licked a stripe up Steve’s throat. Steve yanked Bucky into a kiss, then, and he nearly lost his balance, but couldn’t find the humor they’d had earlier – not when Steve was licking into Bucky’s mouth like that, chasing the taste of himself.

“I want it,” Steve murmured against Bucky’s lips.

Bucky pulled back a little, meeting Steve’s eyes. “Want what?” He asked, keeping his tone playful, despite the seriousness of his question.

Steve’s cheeks flushed, which Bucky found totally adorable considering what they were doing. “Want _you_ ,” Steve tried.

Bucky decided he wouldn’t push Steve for more than that, but did need to be sure. “If I do something you don’t like, tell me,” he said in a soft but sober tone. “No grinning and bearing it.” Steve swallowed hard but nodded his head. “Do you… do you have lube?” He asked, suddenly regretting his decision not to bring any.

Steve turned and stretched his body to reach the small drawer by the bed, searching inside for a moment. When he found it, he lay back and held it out. Bucky took it, gently, and pressed a kiss to Steve’s palm.

“Take your pants off,” Steve said, suddenly.

Caught off guard, Bucky nodded before slipping off the bed. He reached in his pocket and laid the condoms out, then unzipped his pants and let them fall to the ground. Suddenly nervous, Bucky hesitated to drop his briefs, though they were stretched to their limit by his erection. He met Steve’s eyes and Steve smiled, affectionately, and sat up; he scooted to the edge of the bed and ran his hands over Bucky’s chest and abdomen, grinning when he shivered.

Steve’s deft hands slid Bucky’s boxers down his thighs and let them drop to the heap at his feet. Steve released a breathy groan when Bucky’s erection was exposed and Bucky thought he might die as more blood rushed there.

“I want that in me,” Steve breathed shamelessly and pulled Bucky by the hand to the bed.

Part of him wanted to say no, that they could wait, but Bucky recognized that Steve had never asked him for anything. He’d give Steve everything that was in his power to give. So, Bucky crawled over Steve’s body and knelt between his open legs. His heart was hammering in his chest but he knew he wouldn’t ever stop.

He grabbed the lube and asked, “Do you want to start on your front?”

Steve nodded, adjusting so his legs were on one side of Bucky, then rolled to his belly. Bucky discovered the he _loved_ Steve’s ass. He leaned down and bit the meat of it, earning a hiss from Steve that turned into a moan when Bucky licked the pink skin. Then, he got another idea and used his hands to spread Steve’s cheeks. Steve gasped and pressed his face into the pillow, but arched his back when Bucky’s tongue touched the furled muscle of his ass.

Steve groaned something into the pillow but Bucky couldn’t make it out. He began licking in earnest, then, and pressed his tongue inside. He’d never done this before but was apparently doing something right, if the whimpers and shaking coming from Steve were any indication. He fucked his tongue inside Steve over and over, then flattened it and swirled around in circles.

Steve was saying something over and over but it was muffled by the pillow. Bucky pulled back and asked, “What’s that?” Then he dove right back in and Steve cried out, pressing back into Bucky’s face.

“Bucky, need it, need you, please,” he finally heard Steve say when he turned his head away from the pillow.

Bucky nodded but kept licking for a few more moments. He grabbed the lube and drizzled some on his fingers, spreading it around to warm it up, then he pulled away. Steve whined and Bucky rubbed his back, soothingly, before pressing the tip of one finger against him.

“Tell me when you want more,” Bucky rasped, swirling more lube around before pressing in just a bit. Steve whined and Bucky stopped, but didn’t pull away, waiting for Steve to give him the word.

Which he did, after a few moments. He began to wiggle his hips and push back before turning to look at Bucky over his shoulder. “Yeah,” he muttered, “more.”

Bucky nodded and pressed his slick finger further inside, then back out; he repeated the motion a few times before he dared to push all the way. Steve’s eyes were shut tight and Bucky massaged his back in circles.

“You’re so beautiful, Steve,” he said, but Steve just huffed a breath and turned his face into the pillow, as if he couldn’t believe what was said. Bucky curled his finger a bit and drug it out of Steve, rubbing against his prostate.

“Hnnn!” Steve whined and Bucky repeated the motion over and over.

“You like that?” He asked, knowing the answer but he felt a tight heat in his lower abdomen when Steve turned to him.

“ _Yes, yes_ ,” he groaned out, desperately.

Bucky smirked and pressed a kiss to Steve’s back. “You are, Steve,” he said into Steve’s skin, into his bones – to his core, hoping that the words might soothe some of those old hurts. “You’re beautiful and amazing and I’m going to make you feel so good.”

Steve nodded and Bucky began pressing a second finger in alongside the first. Steve tensed up and Bucky paused, pressing kisses to the back of Steve’s neck, murmuring sweet words into his skin until he relaxed again. Bucky continued, making sure to rub that spot with each thrust until Steve was whimpering and hard again.

“M-more, please, _please_ , more,” he begged and Bucky obliged, though much slower this time.

The third finger slid in with almost no resistance and Bucky prayed that the sounds that Steve made would be forever burned into his brain. His worries that Steve was in pain or, at the very least, uncomfortable were dispelled when Steve began rocking back onto Bucky’s fingers, moaning the most erotic noises Bucky had ever heard in his life.

“Jesus, Steve,” he breathed and began thrusting his fingers in earnest, aiming for that spot every time.

“N-need it,” Steve whimpered and Bucky seriously believed he had no blood left in his entire body. “I’m ready, I’m ready,” he said in a high, drawn out moan.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” Bucky hissed, easing his fingers from Steve’s body gently, though Steve still let out a small whine. Bucky shushed him and used his boxers to wipe the lube off before he grabbed one of the foil packets. He tore it open and slipped the condom on, biting his lip at how fucking sensitive he was.

Shit, he wasn’t gonna last and he knew it.

“D-do you want to roll over?” He asked, touching Steve’s side.

Without answering Steve shifted so he lay on his back. Bucky reached over for one of Steve’s pillows and tapped Steve’s thigh.

“Lift up,” he said and Steve did.

 He kept his eyes fixed on Bucky and his bottom lip drawn between his teeth. Bucky could see the intensity of Steve’s desire for him and it was almost shocking how much Steve was finally allowing Bucky to see. He’d kept himself at a distance, emotionally and physically, for so long.

Bucky positioned himself so his right forearm held his weight while he used his left hand to line his dick up. Steve angled his hips, drawing his legs up so his knees were nearly touching his chest.

Bucky knew that this could be the hardest part, so he bent down to kiss Steve, as passionately as he had ever wanted to. Breaking away, he asked, “You ready?”

Steve tensed up a bit, so Bucky focused on kissing and touching him everywhere he could reach. If Steve was having second thoughts, Bucky wanted him to know he was safe, that his decision would be respected.

“Would you like to do something else?” He asked, gently, and kissed Steve’s cheek.

Steve shook his head. “N-no, I – I just need a second.”

Bucky nodded and adjusted himself so he could kiss all over Steve’s chest. Then, he took Steve’s right hand and, as Steve watched enraptured, Bucky took two fingers into his mouth. Steve gasped, eyes widening at the sight, and Bucky felt Steve’s dick twitch against his belly.

Bucky sucked on Steve’s fingers, maintaining eye contact; he drug his teeth along the length of them and Steve shivered. “Oh, my God,” he moaned, then pulled his hand away. “R-ready,” he breathed, “I’m ready.”

Bucky nodded, bracing himself once again and lining up. He pressed his face into the crook of Steve’s neck and pushed forward, moaning as his dick slipped inside Steve. _Shit_ , he was definitely not going to last.

He paused there, breathing heavily and trying to get a hold of himself. It was like he was some virgin that had never done this, and he grit his teeth against the intense desire to start thrusting. He decided to focus on Steve, to listen for any indication about how he felt.

Steve sounded just as wrecked as Bucky felt. After another moment, Steve reached his hands around and grabbed Bucky’s ass. Bucky gasped in shock at the move but he felt Steve’s grin against the side of his face.

Bucky thrust his hips gently, pressing deeper into Steve’s body. He buried the fingers of his left hand in Steve’s hair, turning his face to meet Steve’s lips in a deep kiss. When his hips met Steve’s ass, they both moaned into one another’s mouth. He didn’t pause that time; he tried to keep kissing Steve as he moved, but it eventually devolved.

“Oh, God,” Steve whined, digging his nails into the meat of Bucky’s ass after he thrust a bit harder. “L-like that,” he said, nodding his head unnecessarily.

Bucky nodded his head and gripped the bedspread to get more momentum; he dug his knees into the mattress and pulled out, then snapped his hips forward. Steve cried out then, reaching his right hand down to grasp his own dick.

“It’s good, Buck, so good,” he groaned. “Keep going, keep going.”

Bucky had a hold of his sanity until he watched Steve touching himself. “Oh fuck, fuck,” he moaned, spiraling with embarrassing speed toward orgasm. “Oh fuck, Steve,” he groaned, slamming home. His vision went white and he dropped his head onto Steve’s shoulder.

He stayed like that, breathing heavily and coming down, trying to conceal his mortification.

“Buck –” Steve began, but Bucky interrupted.

“Just give me a sec,” he said, slipping out of Steve’s body and taking his dick in hand, jerking it with practiced efficiency. It got hard again, though he knew he couldn’t have another orgasm, but he didn’t care.

Steve was going to have another one.

He leaned up a little, still avoiding Steve’s eyes, and pushed the head into Steve’s body. Steve gasped but it turned into a dirty moan when Bucky began thrusting again. “Right there?” He asked and began aiming each snap of his hips when Steve nodded his head. He knocked Steve’s hand away and wrapped his own hand around Steve, jerking in time with his thrusts. “I wanna see you come,” he whispered. “Will you do that for me?”

Steve yanked Bucky into a hot, wet kiss. “I’m close, Buck,” he breathed and Bucky doubled down on his efforts. Steve threw his head back and clenched his muscles so hard, he’d begun to shake. “Yeah, Buck, I’m coming, I’m _coming_!”

Bucky’s vision blurred when Steve squeezed his dick but he could see clearly enough to watch Steve fall apart. His mouth was open but his eyes were closed; the tendons in his neck were stretched tight. He sobbed out a high moan that was tinged with a whine, so Bucky slowed his movements. When Steve came, it wasn’t much but enough that it spilled wet and sticky over Bucky’s hands onto Steve’s belly.

 “Oh, Stevie, you’re so beautiful,” he moaned and then collapsed forward.

They lay there, panting for what could have been a minute or thirty, Bucky didn’t know or care. He slipped from Steve’s body, holding onto the condom. “Where are you –” Steve began.

“Be right back,” Bucky said, smiling as he pulled the condom off and wrapped it in tissue before dropping it in the trash. He used another tissue to wipe Steve’s abdomen off, then his hand.

When he rejoined Steve on the bed, he lay on his side and Steve turned to face him. He leaned close and kissed Bucky, gently, brushing his hair back. Bucky wanted to ask if that was good for Steve, if he enjoyed it, but couldn’t get the words out.

Steve must have seen the questions on his face, though, because he grinned and said, “I can practically hear the wheels turning in there.”

Bucky took a deep breath and whispered, “I just… I wanted to make sure you… that it was –”

“Bucky Barnes,” Steve huffed, rolling his eyes. “I _more_ than enjoyed myself.”

Bucky’s face broke out into a huge smile and his insecurities were bowled over by his pride. “You did?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Steve said. “Now, let’s go watch that movie.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

They dressed slowly, still acquainting themselves with this new aspect to their relationship. Bucky tried to help Steve put his shirt on, but it got caught on his arm, and then they realized it was on backward. They laughed and kissed until the final articles were properly in place, then Bucky sat down on the edge of the bed and took Steve’s hands.

“Come here,” he whispered, smiling and biting his lip as he pulled Steve closer.

Steve stepped between Bucky’s legs and leaned into the kiss. He wrangled one hand from Bucky’s grasp to bury it in his long hair, then felt Bucky wrap his free arm around Steve’s waist. The kiss deepened and pretty soon they were separating for air, panting heavily.

“I love you,” Bucky whispered, smiling, all teeth and happiness.

Steve’s breath caught and he felt something blooming in his chest, knew what it meant. “I love you too,” he breathed and, before Bucky could say another word, Steve pulled him into a kiss.

He felt Bucky sigh into it, as if he were relieved or even genuinely happy to hear those words. Steve nibbled Bucky’s soft lips and Bucky opened his mouth to deepen the kiss, sending shivers down Steve’s spine. When they broke apart, Bucky’s smile was bigger than Steve had ever seen and his eyes had gone misty.

“You love me,” he said, pressing his forehead to Steve’s. It wasn’t exactly a question but it sounded as if Bucky couldn’t believe it was true.

Steve nodded his head. “Yes,” he confirmed, “I do.”

Bucky’s grin was luminous and pulled Steve onto him as he lay back. They chuckled and kissed while Steve shifted so he was straddling Bucky. He couldn’t believe how it felt to be carefree and light, _happy_ after so long.

“If we don’t get out of here,” Steve teased, “we’ll never watch that movie.”

Bucky chuckled and nodded, pressing one final kiss to Steve’s neck. “Okay, let’s get out of this room fast, then.”

Steve laughed and crawled off of Bucky. They made their way to the living room where Bucky had dropped the movie when Steve had practically jumped him. He got them drinks and they sat down on his couch, holding hands while Steve rested his head on Bucky’s shoulder.

Despite his joy, he couldn’t help but be reminded of what Brock had said to him.

 _No one can have what’s mine_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve was running late. He was expected to be out front by 3:20 and – look at that – it was 3:22. But he had no choice. He was trying to keep the panic from his voice as he counseled Wade on the homework.

“I don’t expect you to write me some Yeats-level poetry,” he said. “Just give me some Wade Wilson-style humor and a concerted effort.  You won’t _fail_ this assignment.”

Wade had been listening in silence as Steve spoke, nodding along intermittently. Out of nowhere, she simply said, “Listen, Mr. Rogers, I gotta ask you something.”

Steve cocked an eyebrow and nodded. “Okay?”

“Where is your nice sweater? Are you going to offer to be my neighbor?”

Having heard similar jokes since he was student teacher in college, Steve shook his head. “Nevermind, Wade,” he replied with a hint of mirth in his voice, “You just may fail this assignment.”

“Ah, c’mon, Mr. Rogers. Aren’t you supposed to tell me you like me just the way I am?”

Steve nearly laughed – _nearly_. But the sound was disrupted in his chest when a figure appeared in the classroom doorway. “Brock,” Steve said, standing up immediately. “Wade,” he said, looking down at his student. “I’ll see you Monday.”

Wade glanced back at Brock before nodding his head. “Sure, see you next week,” he replied, standing and pulling his backpack on.

As he walked out, Brock smiled at him, but Wade didn’t smile back. Steve wondered if Wade knew.

“Too busy flirting to be on time?” Brock asked when Wade had left the room.

Steve didn’t answer; knew there was no _right_ answer in these moments. Instead, he simply said, “I’ll get my lunch bag and we can go.”

“What’d you have today?” Brock asked.

“Kale, spinach, and arugula with parmesan dressing,” he answered as he shut his desk drawer.

“Lot of calories in that,” Brock commented.

Steve nodded. “I’m not going to eat it again. It wasn’t that good,” he lied easily, knowing to keep his voice level.

If he argued, it would just be worse. If he tried to explain that the dressing was fat free, Brock would get mad. He’d tried it before.

“That’s probably a good idea,” Brock replied, looking to all the world as if he couldn’t care less – but Steve knew better.

“I’m ready,” Steve said, smiling as he carried his bags toward the door.

Brock liked it when he smiled; he liked it when he was eager and enthusiastic to spend time together. Steve knew how to act, knew how to keep Brock happy. But he also knew that Brock wouldn’t so easily forget that he was late, that he had to _come get Steve_.

The drive to Steve’s house was silent, which Steve was used to. He knew not to speak, not to touch the radio or even roll his window down. His hands were clammy where they gripped his leather briefcase against his abdomen, but the shield was merely for show. Nothing could stop what was coming.

He hardly trembled at all when he unlocked the door. He kept his head down, didn’t glance at Nick’s house, though he knew that his neighbor was on the porch, watching them.

The previous weekend, Steve had snuck to Nick’s house for an hour while Brock slept off his hangover. The bruises on Steve’s arms from the night before had been covered by his long sleeves and he wondered if Nick knew the truth.

“So,” Brock began, standing behind Steve. “What’s for dinner?”

Steve walked into the kitchen, working hard to make it seem as though he weren’t running away. “I’ve got steak to broil, salads, and baked potatoes.”

“You gonna eat all that?” Brock asked from the kitchen doorway. Something in his tone set Steve on edge.

“I’ll just make a potato for you, I think,” he replied.

Brock grunted his agreement before going to the freezer and grabbing the bottle of vodka he kept there. He poured himself a large glass and then left the kitchen, returning to the living room to watch television. Steve pulled the steaks out of the fridge, where they had been marinating overnight, and put them in the oven to broil. His hands shook from hunger but he made himself busy by wiping the fridge down and cleaning the counters.

Brock returned twice more to refill his glass, eventually just taking the bottle with him to the couch.

When there was about twenty minutes left on the steak, Steve set to work on the salads. He chopped the lettuce and diced tomatoes and cucumbers, just as Brock liked them. He expected restaurant-quality meals every night and Steve struggled to keep up, what with his own work hours and duties.

To appease him, Steve researched recipes and clipped coupons to be able to afford them. He’d always hated cooking and could no longer remember when he’d begun to do it for Brock.

“Not too big,” Brock slurred from the doorway and Steve nearly flinched – _nearly_. Brock didn’t like it when Steve did that; he got mad when Steve showed fear, as if Steve’s terror were an insult.

“I know,” Steve said, smiling, as he wrapped the rest of the tomato in plastic wrap. “Dinner still has a bit to go.”

Brock didn’t reply and, with each passing moment of silence, Steve’s hackles rose and rose. Suddenly, a hand was pressed against his waist and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from gasping. He forced a smile and turned, leaning his head back to accept a kiss.

He didn’t see the slap coming. The punch, he did see and tried to turn, tried to avoid it, but wasn’t quick enough. He gripped the countertop to keep himself standing and grit his teeth to hold back the tears as pain shot through his side.

“Can’t fuckin’ have food ready when I’m hungry? Why do you gotta do _everything_ so wrong? How many _times_ do I have to fuckin’ tell you?”

Steve hardly heard the words at all. He knew what Brock was saying because he’d heard it all before. He also knew that Brock _knew_ Steve wasn’t at fault for the food, or the laundry, or any of the other hundred things Brock said when he hit him.

Brock just liked to hit.

“What the fuck did you just say?” He shouted and Steve felt his stomach fall. He’d said that out loud. Brock grabbed Steve’s hair to force him to turn around. “What did you say?”

Staring into Brock’s dark eyes, a strange thought occurred to Steve – a memory from his childhood. When he and his mother had lived in Brooklyn, she’d been mugged on her way home. Steve was about eight at the time and had been staying with their neighbor. When Sarah Rogers arrived to pick him up, her face was bruised and her nose was bloody; for one reason or another, the thief had beaten her severely.

That night, Steve helped clean her up in the same way she often helped him, following the fights he’d get into. He remembered asking her, “Mama, why didn’t you just stay down?”

At the time, the question had seemed appropriate to him. To Sarah Rogers, however, it was not. “You listen to me, Steven,” she’d replied, looking straight in his eyes, “you _always_ get back up.”

That memory struck Steve to his core and an emotion he had long since buried began to beat in his veins. “I said,” he answered, “you just like to hit me.”

He’d known what Brock would do. He’d know that Brock would hear the challenge, see the revived fight in Steve’s eyes, and he’d known this would end badly. The rage that bloomed across Brock’s face ignited the fear in Steve but he couldn’t get away from the hand that still gripped his hair. The punch to his face knocked the wind out of him; the second one brought tears to his eyes. Still trapped in the hold, Steve reached both hands up and dug his nails into the skin on Brock’s face. He screamed, an angry, confused sound – Steve hadn’t fought back before.

Steve felt the flesh give way and Brock hit him again, though his eyes were closed so the punch caught Steve’s cheek. When Steve’s nails drew blood, Brock tossed him bodily away. Steve hit the fridge hard enough to make his vision white out for a moment. He stayed standing, though, and began to run. He didn’t really know where he’d go – his only thought was _out_ , but when he got to the door, he felt two hands on his shirt, yanking him away from it.

He lost his balance and slammed into the mirror on the hallway wall, sending shards all over the wood floor. He fell to his hands and knees and winced as the sharp glass cut into his palms. He tried to stand up but was yanked backward by two large hands.

Brock pushed him down onto the stairs and went for his neck, but Steve dodged. He rolled and threw himself toward the door again, trying to grab the knob, smearing blood as he went. Someone was screaming and Steve wasn’t sure if it was him or Brock. He nearly reached the door when those hands grabbed his hair again and threw him into the living room. He tried to catch himself but the momentum was too much, and he crashed into his mother’s table. Her vase – the one she had loved so very much – toppled and fell. The force with which Steve hit it sent it over the edge, to the floor.

The _sound_ it made when it broke was unlike ceramic or even glass. It sounded like the cracking of bones; it sounded like Steve was breaking.

He crawled to it, crying heavily, and tried to fit the pieces together, only vaguely aware of the blood he smeared on them. His tears burned where his skin was broken on his cheekbone and lip; he tasted blood and salt.

He didn’t see it coming when Brock grabbed him by the back of the neck, but he didn’t fight it either.

He had no fight left.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve snapped awake; he could still feel Brock’s hands on him and he shot out of bed. He looked around the dark room, sure Brock was there and the past ten months had been some sort of fever dream. When his eyes adjusted, however, he found that his bed was empty.

He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to calm his breathing. But no matter what he did, Steve still felt _wrong_. Something was off. He was jittery and nervous, though he wasn’t sure why. For the first time since before he’d gone to treatment, Steve rushed downstairs to check the locks on his doors. When he realized that everything was in place, he walked into his kitchen and filled a glass with water. Once he’d downed one glass, he splashed some water on his face.

He used his towel to dry off, quickly, and realized that his heart was still pounding.

Chalking it up to the nightmare, he looked at the clock on his stove and groaned. It was too early to be up for the day but too late to try and get some good rest.

He made his way back upstairs and sat on his bed, looking through his open curtains at Bucky’s window. Biting his lip, he let his head fall back as he let his mind wander over the events of the previous day: the gardens, Brock, then… _Bucky_.

He had been attentive and wonderful. He’d made sure that Steve thoroughly enjoyed the sex, had enjoyed _everything_.

The hint of desire in his gut was quashed by the chills running down his spine. Something… there was something wrong. There was a sense of dread in Steve’s stomach that had not been there the night before.

He took a deep breath, noting with increasing frustration that he was shaking, and hurried into his bathroom to shower. He couldn’t feel comfortable unless every light was turned on, the door was locked, and he’d checked the linen closet for – what?

He closed it and turned the shower on, ignoring the tremble in his hands, though it continued as he washed his hair and face. By the time he emerged, the sky was lighting up as a new day began.

Steve stood in front of his empty fridge, panicking. He needed to start off right, to keep making progress, but he had no food. He’d drafted a solid plan with his nutritionist before discharging and he intended to stick with it.

He sipped his black coffee and thought over his options. Option one, go out; option two, go to the store; option three –

A loud buzzing sound caught Steve’s attention and he set the mug down to get to his phone. “Hello?” He asked.

“Hey.” Steve could hear the smile in Bucky’s voice. “So, I’m making frittatas, you know? But, somehow, I made too much. It’s huge, Steve. This is a problem, you see? Frankly, it’s a _huge_ problem.”

Steve chuckled. “And what could I do to be of help?”

“I’m so glad you asked, Steve,” Bucky replied. “I’ve got some ideas.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“So,” Steve began right when Bucky opened the front door, his voice full of mirth. “Where are these ‘frankly problematic’ frittatas?”

Bucky laughed, content and airy. He felt so happy to know that Steve was still so comfortable with him. There was no awkwardness or nervousness in Bucky either.

“I hear the doubt in your voice,” he joked, stepping forward to take Steve’s hand. “But you’ll see soon enough.” He pulled Steve toward him, pressing a slow, sweet kiss to his lips. “Hi,” he said without separating them.

“Hi,” Steve replied, smiling.

He led Steve into the kitchen where a large, cast iron pan sat on the stove. It was the biggest one Nick had and he’d given Bucky a strange look when he’d brought it out.

“Bacon, cheese, and veggies,” Bucky said. “I’ve got coffee made too.”

Bucky saw the hints of Steve’s trepidation: his adam’s apple bobbing; eyes flicking from Bucky to the stove; shifting his weight. But, in spite of it all, he stepped closer.

“I’ll get the plates,” he offered and Bucky felt his face crack into a huge smile.

He poured three mugs and pulled the cream out of the fridge, then spooned some sugar into his own. He added milk but left it out for Nick to use.

Steve had located the correct cupboard and pulled down three plates. Bucky cut the frittata into slices and served them, then grabbed his mug and made his way to the small dining table.

Bucky struggled to keep his hands to himself as they ate; he knew Nick would step into the room at any moment, so he really tried. He _did_. But he couldn’t seem to make his hands _not_ touch Steve.

To avoid the awkward glances they would sure get from Nick, Bucky ate his breakfast quickly and downed his coffee. Steve seemed to have the same idea, as Bucky glanced over to find his plate empty too. He took care of their dishes and cleaned up the kitchen a bit while Steve excused himself to the bathroom.

Bucky knelt before the flower garden that wrapped around the deck and the side of Nick’s house. He was already wrist deep in soil when he heard Steve calling to him from the patio door.

“Buck? Do you – do you still want me to join you?” His voice was anxious but Bucky could tell he was trying to cover it up.

“Yeah, come on,” he called, adjusting so that Steve was able to see where he was located. “Would you be opposed to helping me weed? Then I _gotta_ trim those roses.”

Steve’s smile was bright as he descended the patio steps. “I can work on the roses, if you want.”

“Nah, Steve,” Bucky said, shaking his head. “I can do it. They’re prickly assholes and I don’t want you to get cut up.”

Steve laughed and Bucky was captivated – his smile was brilliant and his hay colored hair was made luminous by the late morning sunshine. He looked _at ease_ and Bucky needed to make him feel this way every day.

 _God_ , there was nothing he wouldn’t do for Steve. _Not a thing._

“What is it?” Steve asked, drawing Bucky from his thoughts.

“Oh,” he began though he had no clear idea of what he would say.

Steve seemed to catch on and, instead, said, “I’ll prune the rose bush. I used to do it all the time with my mom’s.”

Bucky bit his lip, but nodded. “I don’t have any good gloves for you. Just cloth ones. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” Steve said, smiling.

Bucky found some thick work gloves in the garage and pulled the shears off of the wall rack they hung from. When he returned to the back yard, Nick had settled in a lawn chair by one of the raised boxes to weed. He could hear a quiet conversation happening and couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face, knowing that Steve was becoming comfortable with Nick again – that, perhaps, their friendship wasn’t dead.

“… wanted to say that. Finally,” Steve was saying.

“You don’t need to say it, Steve,” Nick answered, smiling. “I only wish –” He stopped speaking when he heard Bucky’s approach. “Come on, Buck,” Nick called, “those roses are gonna get sick if we don’t keep ‘em pruned.”

“I know, I know,” he replied.

“A-actually,” Steve said, “I was gonna do that.”

Nick cocked an eyebrow, clearly trying to hide a grin. “That so?”

“Yes, _Nick_ ,” Bucky said, narrowing his eyes before turning to Steve. “Here’s the gloves.”

Steve took them, smiling shyly and – was he _blushing_? Bucky couldn’t imagine how he could get any more adorable, or how he could still feel nervous after they’d had sex –

 _Oh_ , the breath left Bucky’s lungs in a rush at the memory. He took Steve’s hand and drug him away from Nick and toward the rose bushes. “Here,” he said, his tone a bit sharper than he’d intended, which he realized once he saw Steve’s face fall. Bucky smiled his brightest smile and said, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I can’t keep my hands off of you.” The blush from earlier returned, spreading across Steve’s cheeks, down his throat, and to the tips of his ears. “So,” he continued, leaning close to Steve’s ear, “after we finish this, I wanna get my hands on you again. I wanna make you feel so good, Steve,” he breathed. “Please, please let me.”

He hadn’t touched Steve one bit since their kiss at the door but, suddenly, Steve was breathing like he’d just run a mile. The sunlight had darkened his glasses but Bucky saw through them; he could see the hunger there.

“Y-yes,” Steve whispered back. “ _God_ , yes.”

Bucky grinned and pressed a quick kiss to Steve’s temple. “Work hard,” he said, teasingly, before he stepped away to continue weeding the flower beds.

From his spot, Bucky could clearly see Steve across the yard; for once, he seemed wholly unconscious about his body, unconcerned about what he was doing with it.

Bucky was _very_ aware of it though.

Steve bent over to trim, sometimes almost doubled over with is ass pushed out in the sexiest pose Bucky could ever remember seeing. After an hour, Bucky realized he had stopped weeding altogether and was, instead, ogling his boyfriend like a horny teen. He licked his lips, tucking some stray hair behind his ear before standing and forgetting the garden completely.

“Steve,” he called as he walked over. He ignored the blatant grin on Nick’s face as he crossed the space between himself and Steve. “Want to get out of this heat?” He asked as he approached.

Steve turned around, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm; he squinted up at Bucky and nodded. “Uh, yeah,” he answered, seemingly unaware of Bucky’s desires. “I could get out of the heat for a bit.”

Bucky nodded and took Steve’s hand, pulling him toward the house without pausing to put the gloves or shears away. They moved through the kitchen and dining room to the front door, then out and toward Steve’s house.

Once Steve unlocked the door and they were inside, Bucky kissed him. He tasted salty from his sweat but Bucky couldn’t get enough.

“Wait, Buck,” Steve said, breathing heavily. “I-I want to shower first.”

Bucky stepped back. “Yeah, of course,” he replied. “Do you want me to go home and come back?”

Steve frowned. “What? No, I want – I want to shower. With you.”

Bucky felt all of the blood in his body move at once and he thought he might pass out. “Y– er yeah, okay.” He swallowed hard and let Steve lead him up the stairs.

This wasn’t the first time Bucky would see Steve’s bathroom but this was nothing like rinsing off in the sink by himself. This time, Steve had him pressed against the vanity, hands pulling the tie out of his hair. Bucky was beginning to wonder if Steve had a thing for it, or if he simply disliked the bun.

“Do you prefer my hair down?” He asked, pulling back only an inch.

Steve chuckled. “I love how long it is, how soft it is.” He dug his fingers in, gripping it. “I love when it falls around your face when you’re on me.”

“ _Jesus_ , Steve,” he groaned, letting his eyes fall shut, remembering how Steve felt around him.

“Come on,” Steve said, releasing Bucky’s hair to tug his shirt off.

“I smell,” Bucky warned as he lifted his arms.

“I do too,” Steve chuckled as the garment hit the floor. “That’s what we’re here to take care of.”

Bucky nodded and his breathing picked up. He knew where this was going. _God_ , he knew and his hands were itching to feel Steve’s skin again. He pulled Steve into a kiss and began yanking on Steve’s clothes, separating only to get them off of him. Steve pulled away to start the shower and Bucky pressed himself against Steve’s back, kissing along his neck, feeling Steve shiver in his hands.

“Ohh, Buck,” Steve moaned when Bucky’s dick pressed against his ass.

“Are you… do you want to do something else?” He asked, suddenly conscious that Steve may feel sore after the day before.

“Buck,” Steve replied, “I want to wash off, then I want… I want – I – let’s just shower.”

“Steve,” Bucky said, taking Steve’s shoulders to turn him around. “Whatever you want,” he continued. “I told you. _Anything_ you want.”

Steve was biting his lip, staring at Bucky with something akin to desperation. “I want – I want – shit,” he sighed. “I can’t say it.”

Bucky made sure to keep his smile disarming. “I have an idea,” he said. “Come on, let’s get in.”

Steve turned back and adjusted the shower temperature, testing it before they stepped inside. Bucky grabbed the blue bottle of soap and squeezed some out onto his hand, then began scrubbing Steve’s chest and back, then let his hands glide down Steve’s abdomen.

“I’m gonna wash you down,” he said, wrapping his hand around Steve’s growing erection. “Then I’m gonna turn you around,” he continued, stroking Steve with long and slow movements.

Bucky had never really tried dirty talk with his previous partners. It had always felt unnatural, forced, but something about the way that Steve’s breath hitched and his pupils dilated had Bucky’s mouth running wild.

 “I’m gonna spread you wide and use my mouth to make you wet and loose.”

 “Oh, God,” Steve moaned, releasing shaky breaths. “Yeah, I – oh, Buck, yes, please.”

With that, Steve’s unending pleasure became Bucky’s mission. He pulled Steve into his embrace, kissing him hard and a little sloppy, but neither of them cared. He continued scrubbing Steve down, paying close and gentle attention to his ass. Each swipe of Bucky’s fingers made Steve go a little wild – he gripped Bucky tighter, pressing in closer and moaning a little desperately.

“Enough,” Steve said in a harsh whisper and pushed Bucky’s hands away.

“I’ll wash off fast,” Bucky said in an equally strained voice.

They rinsed off and Steve shut the shower down before he pulled Bucky out. He handed him a fluffy towel that Bucky would have loved to snuggle in for a minute, but he did not do that. Instead, he ran it over his body efficiently and followed Steve into the bedroom.

Steve seemed nervous all of a sudden; his eyes were wide as he waited for Bucky’s move. Stepping forward slowly, Bucky took Steve’s hands and kissed him, slow and chaste.

“Are you okay?” He asked.

Steve looked up at him and nodded. “Yeah, just… just a little nervous.”

Bucky placed his hand over Steve’s cheek. “Do you want to do something else first?”

Steve frowned. “Like what?”

Smiling, Bucky said, “Let me give you a massage?”

Steve’s eyes fluttered and he nodded, allowing Bucky to lead him to the bed and help him lie across it, face down. Bucky tried to be quiet as he found the massage oil lubricant that Steve had in his drawer and he also tore a condom from the strip. He tucked it under the pillow to ensure that Steve didn’t feel pressured by its presence, as if having it ready and available meant Bucky expected it.

He knelt by Steve’s hip and squeezed a bit of lube into his palm, then rubbed his hands together. “I’ll be gentle but tell me if anything doesn’t feel good.”

Steve nodded. “Okay.”

Bucky’s hands were gliding smoothly over Steve’s warm skin; he used the heels of his hands to lightly rub the muscles across Steve’s shoulders and along his spine. He couldn’t help the way the air rushed from his lungs when Steve moaned; he couldn’t help that he would do anything for Steve to make that sound again.

It was so much sweeter the second time.

And the third.

By the fourth, Bucky had reached the small of his back and was rubbing, gently, over the crease of his ass. “Buck!” He gasped, shakily, as his hips jerked toward his hand.

“Should I stop?”

Steve shook his head, then buried his face in the covers. Bucky could see the deep pink of his blush reaching his ears and turning his neck splotchy. Bucky leaned down and placed a kiss at the base of his neck, then began pressing them along Steve’s spine.

“Steve,” he continued between kisses, “I need you to tell me if this is okay.”

Once he reached the small of Steve’s back again, though with his lips this time, he paused. Steve released a desperate sound and lifted his hips up a bit, minutely pushing back toward Bucky’s face.

“I – I want it,” he murmured into the blankets and Bucky’s waning erection returned with a vengeance.

He understood that Steve was nervous and shy about this, but what he would have given to see Steve’s face when he’d said that. “Anything you want,” he replied before adjusting himself to lie between Steve’s legs.

The first swipe of his tongue had Steve crying out, gripping the blankets by his chest. He repeated the motion two more times before spreading Steve wide and pressing his face against him. He started with some teasing licks, then pushed his tongue inside Steve.

“Ahhh!” Steve shouted.

Bucky swirled his tongue around Steve’s opening, feeling the saliva drip down his chin. Steve was shaking by then, moaning with almost every breath. Bucky flattened his tongue and hooked it on Steve’s rim, tugging gently; he was surrounded by the beautiful sounds Steve was making.

Then something happened – Steve’s muscles clenched around Bucky’s tongue and the shaking increased exponentially; he cried out Bucky’s name as Bucky realized he was _coming_.

“Oh God, Buck,” Steve groaned as his body slumped onto the bed.

Bucky sat up and helped Steve roll over, then he grabbed the towel he’d brought from the bathroom and wiped the bed. Steve was still panting, eyes unfocused, hazy, and his skin was flushed – he was the most incredible thing Bucky had ever seen.

“Steve,” he breathed.

“Come on, Buck,” Steve rasped. “I want you… want more.”

Bucky nodded and wiped his hands with the towel. “Okay,” he agreed, picking up the lube. He pressed kisses to Steve’s abdomen as he poured some on his fingers.

He opened Steve up slowly, continuing to mouth along Steve’s collar bone, lick over his nipples, and nip the sensitive skin over his hips. Steve was hard again by the time Bucky withdrew his fingers, lying back panting and sweating. His blue eyes were bright with anticipation but, when Bucky rolled the condom on, Steve put his hands out.

“Wait, Buck,” he said, pushing against Bucky’s chest.

Bucky stopped and let Steve move him but furrowed his brows in confusion when Steve didn’t stop pushing. He rearranged them so Bucky’s back was against the pillows and he lay there, motionless, waiting for Steve’s next move.

“I want – I want this,” he explained, straddling Bucky’s hips.

Bucky groaned helplessly and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Oh, my God,” he breathed as Steve lined his dick up and bore down on it. “Oh, my God, Steve, oh, my God,” he moaned, rubbing his hands over Steve’s thighs in quick, desperate motions.

He didn’t feel as near to orgasm as he had the first time. He didn’t feel so overwhelmed either. But _Steve_ looked so blissful; his eyes were open and hazy, and Bucky felt a heady pride that he could make Steve experience that. He kept his hips to the bed, fighting the urge to rock into Steve’s body, but that didn’t mean that his hands were stationary.

Not one bit.

He touched Steve’s hips and waist, ran his fingers over Steve’s hardening nipples, and across his collar bone. When Steve was fully seated, he moaned and leaned forward, resting his hands on Bucky’s chest.

“Fuck, Bucky,” he sighed. “You feel so good. Always make me feel so good.”

“Y-you can t-take it slow,” Bucky stuttered, panting as he watched Steve settle over him.

Digging his nails in, minutely, Steve lifted himself up and dropped down again. The air rushed from Bucky’s lungs in a whoosh and he hardly had a moment to take another breath before Steve did it again.

“Oh, God,” he moaned. “I – I love you, Steve, oh, fuck, I love you so much.”

Steve responded with a whine as he began moving in earnest. “Love you, Buck, so much.”

Bucky reached up to cover one of Steve’s hands with his own and twined their fingers together. Steve squeezed him and smiled. The late morning sun shone through the window, illuminating his features, making his eyes shine. He was the most beautiful thing Bucky had ever seen and he couldn’t believe he could _have this_.

“How is this real?” He questioned, breathily. “How do I get to be with you?” Steve smiled, slowing his pace a bit and Bucky knew he would come back with a self-deprecating remark, so he went on. “You’re so amazing. I can’t believe I got so lucky.”

“Buck,” Steve gasped, picking up his speed again.

His skin was flushed and his moans changed, became higher, more desperate, and Bucky knew he was close. He kept hold of Steve’s left hand and reached down to grab his leaking dick. Bucky was well aware that Steve’s come would get all over him and he couldn’t wait.

“C’mon, baby,” he moaned, feeling his own orgasm impending. “Come all over me, c’mon. So fuckin’ sexy,” he babbled, trying to hold onto his self-control for just a bit longer.

“Bucky, Bucky, Bucky,” Steve chanted, fucking himself down on Bucky’s dick and up into his hand, his breaths coming out in high moans. His eyes were closed, shut tight, but Bucky saw the tension in his shoulders and neck as he got closer and closer. Then he cried out, contracting around Bucky’s dick as ropes of come shot over Bucky’s abdomen.

“Oh, fuck, Steve,” he groaned, thrusting involuntarily, chasing his own release. He let Steve’s dick go and grabbed his hip, though still held onto Steve’s hand. “God, baby, so close.”

Steve’s eyes opened a bit and he smiled before he continued riding Bucky. His gaze was intense as he drove Bucky to orgasm, groaning when Bucky gripped his hip tighter. When he came, it was like fireworks – it was the Fourth of July and New Years; it was earthshaking and he threw his head back with the force of it.

Finally he collapsed, though still riding out some aftershocks. Steve lay down, draping himself over Bucky’s chest as they panted together.

“Oh, God,” Steve said between breaths. “That was…”

“Amazing?” Bucky supplied, though more than a little nervous Steve would disagree.

Nodding, though, Steve agreed, “Amazing.”

Bucky sighed in contentment – and a little relief – and ran his fingers through Steve’s hair. He was suddenly struck by the realization that they’d had sex more times than they’d had a real date. He nearly groaned in disdain at himself, though he knew they had spent much time together since their initial meeting. That knowledge only eased his guilt a little.

Gathering his nerve, he asked, “Can I take you out?” Steve stayed silent for a few moments and Bucky was sure he was thinking about being in public, about the stress of eating, and about being seen by Brock.

The memory of the way Brock had looked at Steve and how _afraid_ Steve had been – it set his blood boiling. But he was soothed, knowing that Steve had stood up for himself, stared Brock down. He had no idea how hard it must have been to let Bucky touch him after that, let alone have sex with him, but he was extremely proud.

Steve was so strong and Bucky had always known it.

“We could go to the greenhouse,” he suggested. “Just to look around. I think you could use some more flowers. Your yard is pretty pathetic, Steve.”

He felt Steve laughing before he heard the sound. “That so?” He asked, his tone mirthful.

“Yeah,” Bucky confirmed. “As your neighbor, I have to object to the state it’s in.”

He knew Steve was smiling because he could feel it. “I guess I’d better do something about that. Don’t want to offend the neighborhood.”

“Probably a good idea,” Bucky nodded. “And, since I’ve got some gardening experience and, as you know, my dad was a botanist, I’d like to offer my help.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve dressed in his jeans and sandals again, but pulled a thin, cotton checkered button up over his t-shirt. The layers, though inconvenient in the heat, helped him feel more secure. He wouldn’t put the hoodie back on. It was too warm and reminded him of too many things.

They left Steve’s house and drove in Bucky’s Subaru. Their hands were clasped over the console as usual but they weren’t talking. Steve appreciated that about Bucky - that he could give Steve these quiet moments to gather himself.

It wasn’t Bucky, or even going out with Bucky, that caused Steve’s anxiety. It was all of the same fears that had trapped Steve in his home for nearly a year. Especially after Brock had shown up the day before, after he’d all but threatened Bucky, Steve was more vigilant, more guarded than usual.

Maybe Bucky wasn’t afraid of him, but Steve knew what Brock was capable of.

At that moment, they turned onto a familiar street and Steve realized they were going to Dora Milaje, the greenhouse Steve’s mom had loved. Steve felt a spike in his anxiety.

“What is it?” Bucky asked, squeezing Steve’s hand. “Do you want to go home?”

Steve’s initial instinct was to say ‘yes,’ and return to the comfortable darkness of his home.

But, after a moment of hesitation, Steve realized how tired he was of hiding. He was _tired_ of checking the locks and closing the curtains, of keeping his back pressed to the front door and his hands over his ears when Brock showed up, drunk, screaming at Steve to open the door. He was tired of feeling afraid.

He was tired of concealing how happy he was with Bucky.

He knew Brock was crazy, knew he would come back, but Steve couldn’t do anything about that. Just as he couldn’t have ever stopped Brock from hitting him or berating him.

What he _could_ control was how he chose to live in spite of his fear, in spite of Brock’s looming presence.

He could have a life - he could _live_ a life. He could, maybe, have a life _with_ someone. Maybe, even Bucky.

He knew, objectively, it was too early to think in such terms, but the happy, reckless, carefree piece if him that Bucky’s earnest affection had awoken - that part of him didn’t care much for objectivity.

So, he decided - then and there - that he would no longer hide his happiness behind the walls he’d built. If he was being honest, he had long since torn them down and opened himself to Bucky.

“No,” he finally answered. “I want to go out with you.”

Bucky’s shoulders drooped as the tension Steve hadn’t seen right away melted out of him. He smiled a shy version of his usual luminous one and Steve frowned.

“I can’t keep offending the neighborhood, Buck,” he said, teasingly. “Gotta spruce the yard up.”

Bucky laughed and his happiness was back, full force. He pulled into the parking lot of the greenhouse and garden center that Steve had always loved. It was the only one that his mom would take him to. It was expensive so Steve doubted he’d be getting anything but he was happy just to look.

 “You ready?” Bucky asked, crinkling his nose and smiling the smile Steve had fallen so deeply in love with.

“Yeah,” he replied, grinning back.

They separated only to exit the vehicle, then held hands again and entered the large, open space of the greenhouse. They wandered the rows of flowers and leafy plants, stopping to touch or smell as they did.

“Hello!” An accented voice called and Steve smiled, recognizing it immediately. “Steven, is that _you_?”

He turned as the woman approached. Her brown hair was graying and her face had a few more lines than he remembered but he’d know her _anywhere_.

“Hey, Peggy,” he replied, lifting his free hand in a wave.

Her smile widened and she walked closer. “Oh, Steven Grant Rogers, where have you _been_?”

Steve chuckled, nervously, and tried to think of an answer, but Bucky stepped in. “He’s been teaching me about chrysanthemums. I’m a bit of a hopeless pupil.”

Peggy’s eyes moved over Bucky, appraisingly - almost sizing him up, really. “I remember you now,” she replied. “You bought that beautiful mum a couple of months ago.”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah, that was, uh, for Steve.”

It was at that moment that Peggy’s eyes fell on their joined hands and she made an almost comical sound - a mix of shock and excitement. “This is your young man now, Steven? Oh, I _must_ tell Okoye.”

“Oh, Pegs, that’s not -”

“Darling!” She called, ignoring Steve’s outburst. “Darling, please come here!”

“Yes,” Okoye called back. Her voice, too, had an accent but it was entirely different from Peggy’s. “Just about done, my dear.”

Peggy didn’t call back and, instead turned back to Steve. “Well? Are you going to introduce me?”

Steve gasped. “Sorry, Peggy, I wasn’t - uh, this is B- James, James Barnes. My, uh…”

“Boyfriend,” Bucky supplied, grinning at Steve’s flushed face as he held his hand out to shake Peggy’s. “Please, call me Bucky.”

She grinned too, her red lips matching her beautiful dress. “Bucky,” she repeated. “I’m Margaret Carter but, please, call me Peggy. My wife,” she gestured behind her, toward the office, “is Okoye.”

Bucky nodded. “It’s nice to meet you, officially.”

“You as well,” she agreed.

“I’m here, I’m here,” Okoye said as she strode over. Steve was a bit surprised to find that she had shaved her head since he’d last seen her, but she looked wonderful. “Ah, Steven,” she said, pulling him into a tight hug.

His first instinct was to push her away, to yank out of the hold, but he held still. _It’s okay_ , he repeated over and over inside his head. She pulled away and looked at him with an unreadable expression.

“Has it been so long? We worried you had died,” she said.

Steve gulped, realizing that he had never reached out to anyone after he left Brock. “I-I’m sorry, i-it has been a while.”

Peggy, however, stepped in. “Steven, I’m more happy that you’re here than I ever was angry that you’d disappeared.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh, I left Brock.”

Okoye’s smile seemed to warm a little. “I’m very happy to hear that.”

“As am I,” Peggy agreed. “Bucky, you mustn’t think we’re a couple of old hens, fussing over Steve, but we’ve known him for many years.”

Bucky took that opportunity to change the subject, saving Steve from having to further discuss all he had been through. “How did you all meet each other?”

Peggy cocked an eyebrow, knowing exactly what Bucky was doing. “Sarah, his mother, used to come here. She _loved_ the greenhouse.”

“And the apiary,” Okoye added. “We keep beehives here, too,” she explained.

Steve felt the pinpricks of tears but he told himself it was his allergies. “Yeah, she loved bringing me here.”

He looked up to find Bucky smiling at him. “What was her favorite part?”

Thinking, Steve finally said, “The koi pond.”

“Will you show me?”

Steve squeezed Bucky’s hand and nodded. He was trying to think of what to say to Peggy when she spoke first. “If you’ll excuse us. Darling, there’s a customer at the counter.”

Bucky waved as the two women turned to return to the office, hand in hand. Steve turned and led Bucky away from the large greenhouse, toward the sounds of the water. Looking around at the trees and shrubs, Steve grinned to himself, remembering times he’d meandered along this same path with his mother.

He glanced up to find Bucky watching him, a curious look on his face. He must have seen Steve’s grin. “I was just thinking,” he explained. “Are there big, wooded areas in Indiana?” He asked.

Surprised by the seemingly random question, Bucky nodded. “Yeah, there’s Hoosier National Forest and other places. Why?”

Chuckling, Steve answered, “Brooklyn’s got none of that. We went to Central Park once that I remember. So, when mom brought me here the first time, I was _sure_ I was finally seeing a real forest.”

Bucky laughed too, glancing around at the sparse, young trees and trimmed shrubs. “You been to one since?”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Mom and I went to see the giant Redwoods and I’ve hiked a lot. Seen a real mountain, too,” he added with an exaggerated air of pride.

Bucky’s laugh was such a wonderful sound. It still astounded him that Bucky could emit such cheer when he’d lost so much so young. He knew Bucky had Nick but one man could only fill so much of a void.

They approached the koi pond and Steve crouched down to get a closer look. The area felt larger in his memories but he wasn’t disappointed. The water had a green tinge to it as a result of algae on the bottom but it was still clear enough to see all of the fish swimming in it. There were rocks along one side where he remembered sitting with his mom, shoes off, feet in the water. He never tried to splash or disturb the koi as they passed him, only watch and memorize their movements to draw later, when he was home.

On the far side, there was a small waterfall that trickled water in and kept it from stagnating. Steve recalled several sketches he’d done, trying to capture that image but never getting it perfectly.

Bucky took a seat down next to him then, slipping his own shoes off. The sun shone down on them, shimmering on the scales of the koi and even reflecting off of some of the rocks at the bottom.

“Would you…” Bucky began, pulling Steve from his thoughts. “Would you tell me more about your mom?”

Steve turned to him, surprised at the request, but grateful. _So_ grateful. “Yeah, Buck,” he replied, “sure. Uh, what do you want to know?”

Shrugging, Bucky said, “Everything you want to tell me.” His eyes were bright and his smile was soft, affectionate. “I know what she did and that she taught you about gardening. Tell me more, though.”

The corners of Steve’s lips turned up and he was off. He told Bucky story after story about his mother, about her life before meeting his father and the life they had together. He talked about his youth, growing up in Brooklyn, and the years they had together in California. His voice shook a little when he talked about her chemo but it renewed its strength when he told Bucky about her remission.

“When I was in college, my art professor helped me set up a gallery showing and my work was a hit,” he said. “I’d called mom earlier that day to tell her and she sounded… off. More tired, maybe. It was that night that Nick called me to tell me that she’d had a stroke.” Bucky’s eyebrows were furrowed as he listened. “She developed a blot clot in her leg and died at the hospital that night.”

“Steve,” Bucky whispered, squeezing their still interlocked fingers. “I’m so sorry.”

Steve nodded. “Thanks, Buck. I miss her all the time. I’m just glad she was gone long before I met Brock.”

Bucky frowned. “She would still have been proud of you, Steve. She loved you.”

Steve shrugged his shoulders. “I know you… you think I’m brave but I don’t feel like that’s true. I feel like I sat by while someone did horrible things. I know it wasn’t my fault. He’s a monster. But it’s not always easy to remember it that way.”

Bucky hesitated, thinking over his answer. “I get that,” he finally said. “But when it’s hard for you, I’ll remind you.”

Steve looked over to find Bucky smiling his big, beautiful grin, crinkling his nose and flashing his teeth. There was nothing in that look that made Steve question what Bucky had promised. There was no judgement, no pity, no disgust. He just looked _happy_.

Then, one of the koi was startled and dashed away, splashing Steve and Bucky with a few drops of water. It was enough to snap them out of the moment. They laughed and wiped their faces off, leaning close to one another for a few more moments before they stood up.

“We should find some things you want to plant,” Bucky suggested, leading Steve back to the greenhouse.

Steve nodded. “Okay,” he replied and they stood up. He shook his feet, tossing water in an effort to dry off a bit before slipping his sandals back on. Bucky watched him with a mirthful grin on his face, seemingly trying not to laugh. “You won’t be laughing when you slip and fall on your ass,” Steve quipped.

“I’m sure you’re right,” Bucky replied, struggling to tug his own sandals back on.

Steve laughed, loud and carefree; Bucky stopped trying to fight with his shoe and looked up to watch him. The action was not seamless and Bucky lost his balance, collapsing on his backside on the dirt.

Steve covered his mouth, trying to stifle the sound, but it was too late. Bucky was laughing too, then, and Steve almost doubled over. His cheeks hurt from laughing but no longer because he wasn’t used to it. They ached because he was doing it _too much_ and that felt almost as good as the laughter itself.

They calmed down and joined hands again, walking into the large, open space of the greenhouse. Pots hung from macramé cord in elegant designs; tables stretched along the room, covered in small, medium, and large-sized flowers and plants. Metal lattice work held up more planters with beautiful blooms hanging over the sides. It smelled amazing, like roses and lilacs and carnations.

The air was humid and hot, making Steve sweat right away. Ignoring it, he grabbed a small basket to begin browsing. He heard the sound of metal hitting metal and turned to find Bucky, pulling a flatbed card into the greenhouse.

“What are you –?” Steve began but Bucky cut him off, rushing over and taking the small basket away from him. “Hey, I –”

“Come on,” Bucky interrupted. “You need some perennials, a few bulbs, and maybe a shrub.”

“Buck, I can’t –”

“Steve,” Bucky said, halting Steve’s protests. “I’d like to do something for you. This, I can do. We’ll pretend your birthday is soon.”

Before he could stop himself, he grumbled, “My birthday _is_ soon.”

“When?” Bucky asked, smiling. Steve clamped his lips together and crossed his arms, trying to give the impression that he was unmoved. “Aww, come on, Stevie,” he murmured, approaching Steve and biting his lip. “Tell me,” he breathed, stepping in close and putting his lips to Steve’s ear. “Please? I’ll make it worth your while, I promise.”

Steve gulped, feeling much, much hotter all of a sudden. Bucky’s hands were on his upper arms, gently rubbing him, while their bodies pressed together and Bucky’s lips tickled his neck.

 _Oh,_ he was in trouble.

“J-July…” he began, stuttering and feeling a shiver run up his spine.

“July…” Bucky repeated, letting his tongue run along the cartilage of Steve’s ear. “July, what?” He asked, teasingly.

“F-fourth, July fourth,” Steve finally answered, gripping Bucky’s shirt in both hands.

“Your birthday is the fourth of July?” Bucky asked, though unlike the usual, derisive responses to this information, he sounded just as breathtakingly seductive as he had before. “That’s next week.”

Steve nodded his head. “Y-yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked, a hint of hurt in his voice that Steve wanted to soothe immediately.

“I didn’t mean to keep it from you,” he said, moving back to meet Bucky’s eyes. “I haven’t really celebrated my birthday in… well, it’s been a while. It hasn’t been anything special.”

Bucky’s eyes looked sad as he thought over what Steve had said. “Well,” he replied, “not this year. This year, _I’m_ spoiling you. Starting now,” he added and abruptly turned to continue pushing the cart through the greenhouse.

“Buck, wait!” Steve tried, but Bucky merely grinned and continued walking.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The back of Bucky’s Subaru was _full_. They had laid the seats down to have more room and it barely fit. He’d grabbed rosemallows, bottlebrushes, lilacs, cistus, tulips, and daffodils. Steve had picked out a few smaller plants; whispering bells, buttercups, and monkey flowers. They’d grabbed two bags of soil and organic fertilizer.

“Buck, you didn’t have to get all of this,” Steve hedged, wringing his hands.

Bucky frowned. “Steve,” he said, “I _wanted_ to do this for you.”

Steve’s demeanor had changed and Bucky knew it was because of the money he’d spent. To him, it was all worth it and he, truly, had more than enough. The drive was quiet and, though they continued to hold hands, Steve seemed off. He stared out the window and hardly spoke when Bucky tried.

Bucky parked in front of Nick’s house and turned to Steve. “Hey, I’ll help you get this out and then we can talk later, if you want?”

Steve looked at him with an unreadable expression, but shook his head. “No, uh, please come inside.”

Bucky gulped. Had he messed up? He’d simply wanted to do something sweet for Steve, but had he gone too far?

“O-okay,” he nodded before untangling their fingers and stepping out of the air conditioning.

Steve waited for Bucky to come around the car, then took his hand again. He took a deep breath and Bucky could practically hear him say _Pony up, Rogers_. “Come on,” Steve said, pulling Bucky to the house.

He pressed the lock button on the fob as he followed, confused and unsure. Was Steve going to dump him? What happened?

“Steve, what is it?” He asked, ignoring the tremor in his voice. Steve didn’t reply. They climbed onto his porch and he unlocked the door in a rush. Once inside, Bucky asked again, “What’s going on?” But Steve remained silent.

He set the deadbolts before he rounded on Bucky, crowding him into the living room, pushing against his chest with both hands until the backs of Bucky’s knees hit the couch.

“Steve,” Bucky gasped as Steve pressed down on his shoulders, urging him to sit. “Steve, what –?” But Bucky’s mouth clamped shut as Steve fell to his knees between Bucky’s and reached for the zipper on Bucky’s shorts. “St-Steve, you don’t – what are you doing?”

Steve looked up at him, eyes wide and uneasy. “I… you bought all that… spent all that money on me.”

It took a moment for Bucky to realize what Steve was saying, what he believed he _was expected_ to do. Bucky wasn’t proud of the sound he made, like he’d been punched hard in the gut, but it wasn’t important. He pushed himself to the floor, to be at Steve’s level, and took Steve’s face in his hands.

“ _Steve_ ,” he said, furrowing his eyebrows. “ _Never_ , you never _owe_ me – owe me sex, or blowjobs, or attention, or _anything_.” Bucky’s eyes welled up with tears of rage and heartbreak. “I do things for you because I _want_ to, because seeing you happy is what makes me happy. I’d never expect s-some kind of – of _payment_.” At some point, Steve had begun to cry too and Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him into a tight embrace. “I love you.”

But Steve wasn’t holding him, or letting himself be held. He pushed against Bucky, trying to escape his grip, so Bucky released him. Steve nearly toppled backward but caught himself before he could fall. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and _glared_ at Bucky with a fury Bucky had never seen.

“ _Don’t_ touch me,” he hissed.

Before he could catch himself, Bucky tried to reach out but Steve smacked his hand away.

“I _said_ , don’t touch me.”

Bucky was in shock. Steve wasn’t merely angry, he was afraid too; his eyes were wide and wild, like a caged animal. He scrambled to his feet, putting more distance between himself and Bucky.

“Steve, wait,” Bucky tried but Steve cut him off.

“Or _what_? You gonna hit me?”

Bucky recoiled as if he’d been struck. “Steve,” he breathed, but was unable to imagine what he intended to say.

Steve had never looked at him this way, even when they were merely getting to know one another. Something was _wrong_ and Bucky had no idea what to do. He stood up, keeping his movements slow and obvious.

“Steve, I don’t know what’s going on but I would _never_ hurt you. I’m s-sorry if I… if I scared you. I’m just… I’m gonna go, okay?” He kept his hands up as he crossed the room. Pausing at Steve’s side, he said, “I… I’m sorry.”

He unlocked each deadbolt and rushed out of Steve’s house, heaving gulps of air as if he’d been underwater or suffocating but was finally released. He felt the tears on his face and felt the sobs in his throat as he unloaded the flowers and supplies, leaving them on the edge of Steve’s property. When he had gotten most of it, Nick came outside and found Bucky, sitting on the lawn, his face in his filthy hands.

“Buck, what is it?” He asked, approaching from behind. “What happened?”

Bucky looked up at him and Nick’s mouth shut. He _knew_. He held out his hand and helped Bucky stand up, then they finished unloading the soil bags together.

Casting one final look at Steve’s house, Bucky found his curtains were shut tight for the first time in months.

“What did I do, Nick?” Bucky cried, sitting at the dining room table, spreading dirty tears over his face.

Nick sighed. “Buck, he came over earlier and looked _off_. I recognized it because I see it in myself sometimes. He _thanked_ me for calling the police all those months ago but he seemed as if it had happened yesterday. You know how I get nightmares sometimes?” Bucky nodded. “I think Steve does too.”

Bucky took a few breaths, trying to calm the sobs and ease the feeling of nausea. “Wh-what should I do?”

Nick thought it over for a moment, then said, “Give him some space but let him know you’re here when he’s ready. I’ve seen the way that boy looks at you. He’ll be back.” Bucky wiped his face again and Nick chuckled. “But, _please_ , go take a shower. Okay? You look like someone smeared ink over your eyes.”

Bucky tried to find comfort in Nick’s optimism but something in his chest ached with fear.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve hadn’t been seeing Bucky – not completely. He knew it was Bucky when they ate breakfast and when they’d had sex; he’d known it was Bucky at the greenhouse.

At least, at first.

Somewhere after Bucky had spent hundreds of dollars and before it was all loaded, Steve’s mind stopped processing what was in front of him. When they drove home, Steve didn’t speak; he knew better than to talk. He didn’t fall for it when Brock tried to speak to him – knew it was a trick to get him in trouble.

He knew what he was supposed to do, what Brock wanted after spending so much money. He wanted to get it over with but knew Brock wouldn’t instigate it, knew he was expected to, so he pulled them inside and went for it.

But Brock told him not to, told him he didn’t _need_ to. Steve knew that was a trick too. It was all a trick. Brock was just looking for an excuse. But then… he was holding Steve and telling him he didn’t need to do that. And he had long hair in a bun and it was so confusing.

When Bucky had stood up to leave after Steve had shouted at him – _oh, God, did he accuse Bucky of wanting to hit him?_ – Steve _saw_ him. He finally saw what he’d been trying to do.

He had treated Bucky – the sweetest, most loving man he’d ever met – like Brock. He’d fallen back into that role so easily, then pushed him away, shouted at him, and done nothing as Bucky left.

The _look on his face_ , oh, God! The hurt and helplessness, the _shame_. He truly believed he’d done something wrong, that it had been _his_ fault, not Steve’s – not _Brock’s_.

Steve had been sobbing for some time, rocking back and forth on the floor, keeping himself pressed to the front door. He lost track of time as he sat there, holding the world out with nothing but his meager strength. It could have been minutes or hours before he realized how much his stomach ached with hunger. He forced himself to stand on shaky legs and walk to the kitchen, searching the cupboards for _anything_.

He found brown rice tucked away, but not expired; there was a can of black beans and, to top it all off, some peaches. He cooked it up and ate every bit before digging into the canned peaches.

His hands didn’t stop shaking, though, even when he felt full.

He looked out his kitchen window, finding that the sky was far darker than it should be. It was much later than he thought, he realized. Rather than wash his dishes immediately, Steve drug himself up the stairs to his bathroom. He made the shower hotter than he usually would and stayed beneath its spray far longer than needed.

After he dried off, he pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a plain t-shirt. His wet hair sat in a heap over his face but it wasn’t worth the hassle to fix. When he stepped onto the landing, he felt a light breeze touch his still moist skin and looked down.

“Oh no,” he murmured, running as fast as he could to the open front door.

He’d checked the locks! _Hadn’t he?_ Had he forgotten?

He’d only just shut and secured the locks when he heard the heavy soles of boots on the floor behind him. He opened his mouth to scream but no sound came. Even when he felt a hard, tense arm wrap around his waist, he couldn’t make a sound.

“Oh, baby,” Brock’s gravelly voice breathed in Steve’s ear, sending a shudder through him. He reeked of booze and Steve felt the telltale signs of drunkenness. He wobbled a little and his grip seemed almost as much out of necessity as it was about touching Steve. “I’ve missed having you this close to me,” he slurred.

Steve gulped. “Brock.” He felt him nod against the side of Steve’s head. “Wh-what are you d-doing here?”

Brock nearly _snarled_ and that was when Steve felt the hard, unyielding pressure against his back.

Brock had a gun.

Brock was going to kill him.

He would never get to apologize to Bucky, never get to say goodbye.

He began to shake harder than he had already been. “Yeah,” Brock growled. “You feel that.” Steve didn’t speak and forced his body to remain motionless. Brock’s arm tightened as he began walking them backward and Steve had no choice but to follow – not with a gun to his back.

They had made it a few feet when there was an insistent knocking at Steve’s door followed by Bucky’s voice. “Steve? Are you home?” Steve clamped his mouth shut, afraid of what Brock would do to Bucky if he called out.

Brock turned the gun toward the door, holding his right hand out to do so. He wobbled a bit and Steve worried he intended to fire but, instead, he gestured for Steve to walk forward, and matched him step-for-step.

“I’ll kill him,” he swore in the darkest voice Steve had ever heard. “You try to signal him, I’ll kill him.”

Steve’s whole body was shaking but he wiped the tears off of his cheeks and began to unlock the door. Brock adjusted so he was against it, holding his gun to Steve’s lower back.

When Steve had one final lock to turn, Brock grabbed his wrist. “What did I say?” He growled, digging the barrel in.

Steve winced but made no move to escape. “Y-you’ll kill him... if I try to get his help.”

“Good,” Brock praised and looked through the peephole before he released Steve. “Open it slowly.”

Steve followed his instructions, cracking the door a couple of inches. He put his hand up to the wall, trying to keep Brock from noticing. Bucky’s eyes were wide and afraid, desperate even. He’d been crying, too, and Steve wanted, so badly, to comfort him.

“Hey,” Steve said, keeping his voice level.

“Hi.” Bucky began to sob, covering his face with both hands for a moment. He took a deep, shaky breath he spoke, gathering his nerves. “Steve,” he began, “I’m so sorry for earlier. I never meant to suggest you needed to do something like that.”

“It’s fine, Buck,” Steve said, stealthily moving the fingers on his left hand, eyes intent on Bucky as the porch light flickered. “I just… don’t feel good today. I’m just gonna go to sleep, I think.”

Bucky’s face changed from sadness to shock, then to understanding. “I-I’ll try to come by tomorrow. See if you want to talk then,” Bucky offered.

“Y-yeah, I’ll see you,” Steve agreed before shutting the door.

 _Please_ , he thought, _please get the police_.

Brock kept the gun pointed toward where Bucky had been. They waited a moment in tense silence before Brock spoke. “Alone at last.”

Steve released a shaky breath and turned to him. He looked _terrible_. His skin was wan and clammy; he was disheveled and unshaven. His eyes were bloodshot with dark circles beneath them and they fluttered slightly as he swayed, looking to anyone else like he was on the brink of passing out.

But Steve knew better.

Brock was capable of unimaginable cruelty while sober. But when he was drunk? He was brutal, sadistic even. But this time, he was more than just drunk. He looked like he’d been on a bender for hours. God, it had never been this bad before.

“I want you to apologize,” he said, standing more steadily with his feet further apart. The pose ensured that if he fired the gun, he would be less likely to stumble with the recoil, no matter how drunk he was. “A real apology. If you do that, I won’t kill him.”

Steve clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to show fear. Keeping his eyes on Brock, he nodded. “I’m s-sorry, Brock,” he said, softly.

Brock’s eyes fluttered some more. “What are you sorry for?” He asked.

Steve swallowed. He knew Brock wasn’t interested in the past eight months, didn’t care that Steve hadn’t come crawling to him. He intended to make a point. This wasn’t about a reunion – he wasn’t going to let Steve walk away. Maybe he never was.

“Dinner is so late,” Steve explained and _smiled_. Brock liked that. “I haven’t taken anything out of the freezer.”

Brock blinked and furrowed his brows. “What?”

Steve stepped closer. “You’re home so late tonight, honey,” he said. “Did something happen?”

“You…” Brock began, shaking his head. “You kicked me out. You… you left me.”

“No, I didn’t,” Steve said, keeping his voice happy. “I was waiting for you to come home.”

Brock’s arm dropped down a bit as he stared at Steve with such a confused expression. Steve was planning to go for the gun, to throw his meager weight into Brock and knock him down.

That was until the door flew open and Bucky leapt onto Brock’s back. He wrapped his left arm around Brock’s neck and tried to grab the gun with his right hand, but Brock pushed himself backward, slamming Bucky into the wall. He wrenched Bucky’s hand away and elbowed him, hard, in the ribs. Bucky shouted in pain but stayed standing, throwing himself at Brock again.

Steve stood there, watching in terror as Brock gripped Bucky’s hair and tried to throw him, but he was too woozy to do it successfully. Bucky swung his fist, connecting with Brock’s face with a satisfying sound, but Brock recovered quickly. He used his grip on Bucky’s hair to hold him in place, then slammed the butt of his pistol into Bucky’s face over and over.

“Brock,” Steve cried out and, inexplicably, he stopped. “P-please, let’s just… go, okay?”

Brock released Bucky’s hair and he fell to the floor. Steve prayed that he was just unconscious, that he’d be okay long enough for Steve to –

To _what_?

“We can go anywhere,” Steve was saying. “He doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

Brock began walking toward Steve, smiling, but he stopped when Bucky – _alive_ – grabbed his ankle. Brock tried to just yank away, but he was too unsteady, too wobbly, and fell to the floor. The gun skidded across the hardwood, coming to rest barely two feet from Steve. Brock was moving, reaching for it, his face _furious_ and Steve recognized that look.

He was going to hurt Bucky. He was going to beat him and maybe he’d stop but maybe he wouldn’t. Steve lunged for it, grabbing the gun and aiming it at Brock, shakily. Freeing himself from Bucky’s weakened grip, Brock stood up, glowering at Steve.

“St-stay back!” Steve shouted, trying to blink the tears from his eyes.

Brock shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he replied, continuing to step toward Steve.

“Th-that’s far enough!” Steve let his left hand drop from the gun and reached into his pocket to retrieve his phone.

Brock continued walking and, as he did, he said, “You gonna call the cops? You think they’ll protect you? Think a piece of paper will keep me from you?”

Steve knew Brock wasn’t lying. He knew that Brock wouldn’t let him go. He was going to kill Steve – was always going to do it.

He dialed 9-1-1 and held the phone to his ear, trying to hold steady.

“I _love_ you, Steve,” he murmured, but the sentiment only made Steve feel nauseated. “I can’t live without you,” Brock continued, his lips turning up in a snarl. “And I won’t let you live without me.”

“ _911, what’s your emergency_?”

Brock was about to jump, Steve could tell. He was going to kill Steve, any way he could – he might finally beat him to death, or strangle him, or get the gun and shoot him. Steve could see it clearly.

He had no other choice.

“Please, come quick to 1941 Timely Street. I’ve just killed an intruder.”

Brock’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion as Steve disconnected the call and fired the gun, shooting Brock in the chest. He fell to his knees, a look of absolute shock on his face before he collapsed.

Steve ran to Bucky’s side, rolling him over. His face was swollen and his nose was bleeding. “Bucky, please, talk to me,” he called, hearing sirens coming closer. “ _Please_ , Buck!”

Bucky remained motionless for a moment before he winced and groaned.

“Oh, thank God,” Steve breathed, pulling Bucky’s so his head rested in Steve’s lap.

 

 

 

_Epilogue_

 

Bucky had been running around like a chicken with its head cut off for the past hour. He had _begged_ Steve to drive Nick to the store, though neither Bucky nor Nick needed anything there. It was a distraction.

They would be back any moment.

“They’re here!” Nat called in a harsh whisper.

“Alright, everyone,” Bucky said, rushing to hide behind one of the long tables they’d rented, “get ready!”

Students from Steve’s classes, as well as Wanda and a couple other faculty members, all hurried to conceal themselves. None of them had seen him since he’d passed out at school. Some hid with Bucky; others cowered behind garden boxes; Clint, for some reason, was _in_ Nick’s tree.

Bucky heard car doors shut, then after a few moments, the front door opened and Nick and Steve went inside. He heard Nick say, “Head on out back, Steve. Bucky’s probably out there messing with that rose bush.”

“Okay,” Steve replied.

Less than a minute later, the patio door opened and everyone leapt to their feet. “Surprise! Happy birthday!”

Steve’s eyes were wide but, after a moment, he smiled. “Oh my God. _Bucky_ ,” he whined. “You did this? For me?”

Bucky stepped forward, smiling too, though it hurt. “Yeah,” he confirmed. “I wanted your birthday to be special.”

“You got everyone here,” he replied, obviously surprised but grateful.

Steadily, Steve’s students approached him, shaking his hand or even hugging him. Nat had tears in her eyes. “You look so _happy_ , Mr. Rogers,” she said.

“I am happy, Nat,” he confirmed.

“It’s good to see you, Teach,” Clint added. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

“You sure have a nice neighborhood, Mr. Rogers,” Wade cut in and the group laughed.

“ _Hilarious_ , Wade,” Steve said, but he was smiling too hard for the sarcasm to have the correct effect.

Nick came out of the house with a plate of burgers to grill, as well as vegetable kabobs and hot dogs. Bucky went in and carried the fruit tray outside, along with the plates, flatware, and napkins. They had already set out chips and dip and everyone had a bottle of water or a can of soda.

Holding up a metal spatula, Nick called, “I’ll do the honors!”

Bucky promptly snatched it away and said, “I don't think so.”

Nick scowled at him. “You know, I took care of myself for _years_ before you were even born, punk.”

“It sure was nice of the universe to send me to you,” Bucky replied, chuckling.

Nick turned to walk away, muttering, “Can I regift you?”

Bucky gave a loud, mock laugh and turned the grill on. It was a bit of a struggle to see out of his left eye, since it was still so swollen, but he’d made it work so far. He was grateful that he remembered everything after he’d burst into Steve’s house. He knew the disorientation of memory loss and how _not_ fun it was, even if the reality was even _less_ enjoyable.

When Steve opened the door, he looked so afraid and sad, Bucky had been sure it was his fault. But then he began making the light flicker, as if it had never been fixed, and Bucky _knew_ something was wrong. Steve couldn’t say it but Bucky understood.

In retrospect, Steve had probably intended for Bucky to call the police but, at the time, he only knew he needed to do something. When he rushed through the door, he realized Brock had a gun and knew why he’d come.

 _He was going to kill Steve_.

So Bucky jumped on him, trying to get the gun but his left arm was too weak to hold on. He blacked out when Brock began hitting him but remembered hearing Steve’s voice.

Then a gunshot.

He forced his eyes open to see Brock fall to the floor, dead, and Steve holding the gun. His face crumple at the knowledge of what he’d had to do to save himself - and Bucky.

It was only minutes later that he heard the sirens and _knew_ they’d be okay.

Later on, at the hospital, Steve broke down and begged for forgiveness, as if he’d done anything other than _save Bucky’s damn life_. As if he’d had any other choice.

They both knew Brock had gone there to kill Steve. He might have intended to die himself, anyway.

“Buck?” Steve asked, drawing Bucky out of his thoughts. “You want any help?”

Bucky smiled. “Sure, can you grab one of plates so I can get these kabobs off?”

Steve smiled and nodded. “Be right back,” he promised.

Bucky watched him walk to the table; he was interrupted a few times by students but quickly made his way back to the grill. Bucky set the kabobs on the plate and then began cooking the hot dogs.

“The kabobs are up and burgers are about done,” he called and people began lining up.

Once the hot dogs were cooked, Bucky shut the grill down and walked around. He found Steve, sitting in a plastic lawn chair next to Nick. Bucky had been ecstatic to see Steve eat a kabob and a burger, though he still appeared quite uncomfortable doing so with people around. It helped, Bucky figured, that everyone else was eating too.

“I want to grow a plum tree,” Steve was saying.

“I love plums,” Bucky said, sitting down with a plate in his hand.

Steve looked over and gave Bucky a small smile. “You do?”

Bucky nodded and sat back, getting comfortable in the cooling evening air. Since they’d returned to normal life following the incident, Bucky had been worried that Steve was pulling away from him. While he still spent time at Nick’s house, he seemed to flinch away when looking at Bucky’s bruised face.

No matter how many times Bucky assured him otherwise, Steve still felt guilty.

“Fireworks are gonna start soon,” Bucky said.

Steve took Nick’s empty plate as well as his own to dispose of them. Bucky waited, quietly eating his food. “You know,” Nick began, smiling. “He’s gonna be okay, son. The cops already ruled it ‘self-defense’ and the DA has no intention to pursue charges. He loves you and you love him.”

“He’s… he thinks I blame him,” Bucky sighed, biting his lip.

“But you don’t,” Nick confirmed. “How about you go _show_ him?”

Bucky stared at Nick for a moment, thinking over his words before he stood and all but ran to find Steve. As he passed her, Wanda caught him. “He went to his house,” she said. “Said he wanted a break.”

Bucky nodded. “Thank you,” he said and took off again.

He hopped the fence that blocked Nick’s backyard from the front and rushed around to the front of Steve’s house. He jumped the stairs and had just made it to Steve’s door when it opened.

Steve’s eyes widened. “Buck?” He asked.

“Steve,” Bucky answered, “I wanted to… I wanted to…” He couldn’t find the words and, instead, pulled Steve against him, wrapping his arms around him. “I love you. I just… I wanted you to know.”

Steve didn’t respond immediately but, as Bucky began to pull away, Steve clutched at him, releasing a shaky sob. “Buck, I’m so sorry,” he breathed.

“No, don’t apologize,” he urged, tightening his grip. “You did nothing wrong. You saved me, Steve. You saved _us_.”

Bucky’s shirt felt wet where Steve’s tears were absorbed into it. “I love you.” Bucky smiled, burying his nose in Steve’s neck. “Can we just… stay like this for a little while?” He asked, squeezing Bucky to show what he meant.

Bucky nodded. “Yeah – yeah, we can,” he whispered. “Anything you want.”

They remained there for several more minutes until they heard the first telltale signs of fireworks. Steve pulled away and said, “Let’s go watch with everyone.”

Bucky nodded and took Steve’s hand, leading him back to Nick’s house. It was getting dark by that time but there was still enough light to see their way. Bucky didn’t intend to make Steve leap over the fence, so they went straight into Nick’s house and out the back door.

“Hey,” Nat called. “Good thing you got back. The firework’s started.”

Steve leaned his head on Bucky’s shoulder as they both stared up at the sky. It lit up with bright pops of color, followed by silver and gold sparkles falling toward the earth. Then strips of red lights shot into the sky, exploding in yellow then blue before fading out. More and more launched into the sky and Bucky looked over at Steve, watching the colors flash across his face and reflect in his glasses.

“Let’s finish planting those flowers tomorrow,” Bucky said.

Steve nodded and replied, “Yeah, Buck. Tomorrow.”

“But tonight,” Bucky added, “it’s your birthday. What do you want to do next?” Steve looked up, meeting Bucky’s eyes with a huge grin. Bucky’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh,” he breathed, suddenly very ready for the party to end.

 

 

 

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> You made it! Please tell me what you think? As I said above, this story is full of heavy topics but I did my absolute best to be respectful and keep the information authentic.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/humapuma) or on [twitter](https://twitter.com/humapuma817)! I love talking about Stucky, fanfics, and just getting to know people. <3


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